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DUKESBOROUGH TALES 

THE CHRONICLES OF 
MR. BILL WILLIAMS 

Bv RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON 

Author of “Widow Guthrie/’ “The Primes and their Neighbors/’ etc. 



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/ 

DUKESBOROUGH TALES 


THE CHRONICLES OF 
MR. BILL WILLIAMS 

BY ^ 

RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON 

AUTHOR OF 

WIDOW GUTHRIE, THE PRIMES AND THEIR NEIGHBORS, ETC. 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1892 


COFYRIGHT, 1892 , 

By D. APPLETON AND (X)]!kIPANY. 


\ 


Printed at the 
Appleton Press, U. S. A. 


r 


TO MEMORIES OF THE OLD TIMES: 

THE GRIM AND RUDE 
BUT HEARTY OLD TIMES 
IN GEORGIA. 




PREFACE. 


Bv friends and many acquaintances the author has been 
often advised to re-publish Dukesborough Tales in a form 
more convenient than that in which it was first issued. 
Acting upon this counsel, he has carefully revised and 
now submits six stories selected from the original sixteen. 
These relate mainly to incidents in the career of Mr. Bill 
Williams and his nearest associates. 

The writer first employed the nom de plume of Philemon 
Perch, who was supposed to be a witness of many of the 
scenes and in some a participant. His original preface 
and dedication are presented in this volume. 

In Dukesborough the author has preserved his memoirs 
of Powelton, a small village, in Hancock County, Georgia, 
near which is his birthplace. 

R. M. J. 

Baltimore, May 5, 1892. 


PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION. 


These sketches, which I have ventured to call Tales — 
drawn partly from memories of incidents of old times, but 
mostly from imagination — were written for the sake of my 
own entertainment, in the evenings when I had nothing 
else to do. And now I am going to let them be published 
in a little book, having been persuaded, perhaps too easily, 
that they may amuse others, enough, at least, to have me 
excused both for the writing and the publishing. I know 
very well that such words as these, which are meant for a 
Preface, may be regarded rather as an apology. Let it be 
so ; and if it be thought not sufficient even as such, it is as 
much, I insist, as ought to be expected from a man of my 
age. P. P. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Goosepond School i 

How Mr. Bill Williams took the Responsibility 47 

Investigations Concerning Mr. Jonas Lively 7$ 

Old Friends and New 142 

The Expensive Treat of Colonel Moses Grice 245 

King William and His Armies 265 


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THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL 


** You call this education, do you not? 
Why, His the forc’d march of a herd of bullocks 
Before a shouting drover.” 


CHAPTER I. 

The incidents which I propose to relate in these sketches, 
and those which may follow hereafter, occurred, for the 
greatest part, either at or in the neighborhood of Dukes- 
borough, once a small village in middle Georgia. For 
many years it has been enduring patiently the decay inev- 
itable to things of no more stable foundation. It had not 
been laid off in its beginning according to any definite 
plan. It seemed indeed to have become a village quite 
unexpectedly to itself and to everybody else, notwithstand- 
ing that, instead of being in a hurry, it took its own time 
for it, and that amounted to some years. The Dukes first 
established a blacksmith shop. This enterprise succeeded 
beyond all expectation. A small store was ventured. It 
prospered. After some years other persons moved in, and, 
buying a little ground, built on both sides of the road (a 
winding road it was), until there were several families, a 
school, and a church. Then the Dukes grew ambitious 
and had the place called Dukesborough. It grew on little 
by little until this family had all gone, some to the coun- 


2 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ties farther west, and some to the grave. Somehow it 
could not stand all this. Decline set in very soon, and 
now its looks are sad, even forlorn. 

It would be useless to speculate upon the causes of its 
fall. The places of human habitation are like those who 
inhabit them. Some persons die in infancy, some in child- 
hood, some in youth, some at middle-age, some at three 
score and ten, and some linger yet longer. But the last, 
in their own times, die as surely. Methuselah, compara- 
tively speaking, was what might be called a very old man ; 
but then /le died. The account in Genesis of those first 
generations of men is, after all, a melancholy one to me. 
The three last words closing the short history of every one 
are very sad — And he died.’* 

So it is with the places wherein mortals dwell. Some of 
them become villages, some towns, and some cities ; but 
all — ^villages, towns, and cities — have their times to fall, 
just as infants, youths, men, and old men have their times 
to die. People may say what they please about the situa- 
tion not being well chosen, and about the disagreeableness 
of having the names of their residences all absorbed by 
the Dukes, whom few persons used to like. All this might 
be very true. But my position about Dukesborough is, 
that it had lived out its life. It had run its race, like all 
other things, places, and persons that have lived out their 
lives and run their races ; and when that was done, Dukes- 
borough had to fall. It had not lived very long, and it 
had run but slowly, if, indeed, it can be said to have run 
at all. But it reached its journey’s end. When it did, it 
had to fall, and it fell. So Babylon, so Nineveh. These 
proud cities, it is highly probable, had no more idea of 
their own ruin than Dukesborough had immediately after its 
first store was built. But we know their history, and it 
ought to be a warning. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


3 


Ah well! It is not often, of late years, that I pass the 
place where it used to stand. But whenever I do, I feel 
somewhat as I feel when I go near the neglected grave of 
an old acquaintance. In the latter case, I say to myself 
sometimes, And here is the last of him. He was once a 
stout, hearty, good-humored fellow. It is sad to think of 
him as having dropped everything, and being covered up 
here where the earth above him is now like the rest all 
around the spot, and the grave, but for my recollection of 
the place where it was dug, would be indistinguishable 
even to me who saw him when he was put here. But so it 
was. It could not be helped, and here he is for good. So of 
Dukesborough. When I pass along the road on the sides 
of which it is left now, I can but linger a little and muse 
upon its destiny. Here was once a smart village ; no great 
things, of course, but still a right lively little village. It 
might have stood longer and the rest of the world have 
suffered little or no harm. But it is no use to think about 
it, because the thing is over and Dukesborough is — what it 
is. Besides myself, there may be two or three persons yet 
living who can tell with some approximation to accuracy 
what it used to be. When we are dead, whoever may 
wish to gather any very interesting relic of Dukesborough 
must do as they do upon the supposed sites of the cities of 
more ancient times — they must dig for it. 

These reflections, somewhat grave, I admit, may seem 
to be unfitly preliminary to the narratives which are to fol- 
low them. But I trust they will be pardoned in an old 
man who could not forbear to make them when calling to 
mind the forsaken places of his boyhood, albeit the scenes 
which he describes have less of the serious in them than 
of the sportive. If I can smile, and sometimes I do smile, 
at the recital of some things that were done, and words 
that were said, by some of my earliest contemporaries, yet 


4 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


I must be allowed a sigh also when I remember that the 
doings and the sayings of nearly all of them are ended for 
this world. 


CHAPTER II. 

Books ! ” There is nothing terrible in this simple 
word. On the contrary, it is a most harmless word. It 
suggests quiet and contemplation ; and though it be true 
that books do often produce agitations in the minds of 
men and in the state of society, sometimes even effecting 
great revolutions therein, yet the simple enunciation of the 
word, even in an elevated tone, would never be adequate, 
it would seem, to the production of any considerable ex- 
citement. As little would it seem, in looking upon it from 
any point of view in which one could place one's self, to 
be capable of allaying excitement, however considerable. 
I never could tell exactly why it was that, as often as I 
have read of the custom in England of reading the Riot 
Act upon occasions of popular tumult, and begun to muse 
upon the strangeness of such a proceeding, and its appar- 
ent inadequacy for the purposes on hand, my mind has 
recurred to the incidents about to be narrated. For there 
was one point of view, or rather a point of hearing, from 
which one could observe this quieting result by the utter- 
ance of the first word in this chapter twice a day for five 
days in the week. It was the word of command with 
which Mr. Israel Meadows was wont to announce to the 
pupils of the Goosepond schoolhouse the opening, morning 
and afternoon. 

The Goosepond was situated a few miles from Dukes- 
borough, on the edge of an old field, with original oak and 
hickory woods on three sides, and on the other a dense 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


5 


pine thicket. Through this thicket ran a path which led 
from a neighboring planter’s residence where Mr. Meadows 
boarded. The schoolhouse, a rude hut built of logs, was 
about one hundred and twenty yards from this thicket, at 
the point where the path emerged from it. 

One cold, frosty morning, near the close of November, 
about twenty-five boys and girls were assembled as usual 
waiting for the master. Some were studying their lessons, 
and some were playing ; the boys at ball, the girls at 
jumping the rope. But all of them (with one exception), 
those studying and those playing, were watching the mouth 
of the path at which the master was expected. Those 
studying showed great anxiety. The players seemed to 
think the game worth the candle ; though the rope-jumpers 
jumped with their faces toward the thicket ; and whenever 
a boy threw his ball, he first gave a look in the same direc- 
tion. The students walked to and fro in front of the door, 
all studying aloud, bobbing up and down, exhibiting the 
intensest anxiety to transfer into their heads the secrets of 
knowledge that were in the books. There was one boy in 
particular, whose eagerness for the acquisition of learning 
seemed to amount to violent passion. He was a raw- 
boned lad of about fifteen years, with very light coarse 
hair and a freckled face, sufficiently tall for his years. His 
figure was a little bent from being used to hard work. He 
had beautiful eyes, very blue, and habitually sad. He 
wore a roundabout and trousers of home-made walnut- 
dyed stuff of wool and cotton, a sealskin cap, and red 
brogan-shoes without socks. He had come up the last. 
This was not unusual ; for he resided three miles and a 
half from the schoolhouse, and walked the way forth and 
back every day. He came up shivering and studying, 
performing both of these apparently inconsistent operations 
with great violence. 


6 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Hello, Brinkly ! ” shouted half a dozen boys, got in 
in time this morning, eh? Good. You are safe for to-day 
on that score, old fellow.” 

Why, Brinkly, my boy, you are entireZf^ too soon. He 
won’t be here for a quarter of an hour yit. Come and 
help us out with the bull-pen. Now only jes’ look at him. 
Got that eternal jography, and actilly studyin’ when he is 
nigh and in and about friz. Put the book down, Brinkly 
Glisson, and go and warm yourself a bit, and come and 
take Bill Jones’s place. It’s his day to make the fire. 
Come along, we’ve got the ins.” 

These words were addressed to him by the “ one excep- 
tion ” before alluded to, a large, well-grown, square-shoul- 
dered boy, eighteen years old, named Allen Thigpen. 
Allen was universally envied in the school, partly because 
he was too big to be afraid of any schoolmaster. But it 
was the boast of Allen Thigpen that he had yet to see the 
man that he was afraid of. 

Brinkly paid no attention to Allen’s invitation, but came 
on up shivering and studying, studying and shivering. Just 
as he passed Allen, he was mumbling, “A-an em-em-pire 
is a co-untry go-overned by a-an em-per-or.” 

Now, ordinarily the announcement of this proposition 
would be incapable of exciting any uncommon amount of 
risibility. It contains a simple truth expressed in simple 
language. Yet so it was that Allen laughed, and, as if he 
understood that the proposition had been submitted to him 
for ratification or denial, answered : 

Well, Brinkly, supposin’ it is. Who in the dickence 
said it weren’t? Did you, Sam? ” 

“Did I do what?” answered Sam Pate, in the act of 
throwing the ball. 

“ Did you say that a empire weren’t — what Brinkly said 
it was? ” 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


7 


“ I didn’t hear what Brinkly said it was, and I don’t 
know nothin’ about it, and I hain’t said nothin’ about it, 
and I don’t keer nothin’ about it.” And away went the 
ball. But Sam had thrown too suddenly after looking to- 
ward the mouth of Mr. Meadows’ path^and he missed his 
man. 

Brinkly scarcely noticed the interruption, but walked to 
and fro and studied and shivered. He bowed to the book, 
he dug into it. He grated his teeth, not in anger, but in 
his fierce desire to get what was in it. He tried to fasten 
it in his brain whether or not by slightly changing the hard 
words, and making them, as it were, his own to command. 

''An yem-pire,” said he, fiercely, but not over-loudly, 
" is a ke-untry ge-uvernd by a ye-emperor.” 

"And what is a ye-emperor, Brinkly? ” asked Allen. 

"Oh, Allen, Allen, please go away from me! I almost 
had it when you bothered me. You know Mr. Meadows 
will beat me if I don’t get it, because you know he loves to 
beat me. Do let me alone. It is just beginning to come 
to me now.” And he went on shivering and studying, and 
shivering and announcing, among other things, that "an 
yempire was a ke-untry ge-uverned by an ye-emperor,” 
emphasizing every one of the polysyllables in its turn; 
sometimes stating the proposition very cautiously, and 
rather interrogatively, as if half inclined to doubt it ; at 
others asserting it with a vehemence which showed that it 
was at last his settled conviction that it was true, and that 
he ought to be satisfied and even thankful. 

" Poor fellow,” muttered Allen, stopping from his ball- 
play, and looking toward Brinkly as the latter moved on. 
" That boy don’t know hisself ; and, what’s more, Israel 
Meadows don’t.” Allen then walked to where a rosy- 
cheeked little fellow of eight or nine years was sitting on a 
stump with a spelling-book in his lap and a pin in his right 


8 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


hand with which he dotted every fourth word, after reciting 
the following: 

'' Betsy Wiggins ; Heneritter Bangs ; Mandy Grizzle ; 
Mine!” (Dot.) — “Betsy Wiggins; Heneritter Bangs; 
Mandy Grizzle; Mine!” (Dot.) 

“ I-yi, my little Mr. Asa,” said Allen ; “ and supposin’ 
that Betsy Wiggins misses her word, or Heneritter Bangs 
hern, or Mandy Grizzle hern, then who’s goin’ to spell theni^ 
I want to know? And what’ll you give me? ” continued 
Allen, placing his rough hand with ironical fondness upon 
the child’s head — “ what’ll you give me not to tell Mr. 
Meadows that you’ve been gitting your own words? ” 

“ Oh, Allen, please, please don’t! ” 

“ What’ll you give me, I tell you? ” 

“Twenty chestnuts!” and the little fellow dived into his 
pockets and counted twenty into Allen’s hand. 

“Got any more?” Allen asked, cracking one with his 
teeth. 

“ Oh, Allen, will you take all? Please don’t take all! ” 
“ Out with ’em, you little word-gitter. Out with the 
last one of ’em. A boy that gits his own words in that 
kind o’ style ain’t liable, and oughtn’t to be liable, to eat 
chestnuts.” 

Asa disgorged to the last. Allen ate one or two, look- 
ing quizzically into his face, and then handed the rest back 
to him. 

“ Take your chestnuts, Asa Boatright, and eat ’em — that 
is, if you’ve got the stomach to eat ’em. If I ever live to 
git to be as afeard of a human as you and Abel Kitchens 
and Brinkly Glisson are afeard of Iserl Meadows, drot my 
hide if I don’t believe I would commit sooicide on myself 
— yes, on myself by cuttin’ my own throat ! ” 

“ Yes,” replied Asa Boatright, “you can talk so because 
you are a big boy, and you know he is afraid of you. If 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


9 


you was as little as me, you would be as afraid as me. If 
ever I get a man — ” The little fellow, however, checked 
himself, took his pin again, and mumbling, “ Betsy Wig- 
gins ; Heneritter Bangs ; Mandy Grizzle ; Mine! ” resumed 
his interesting and ingenious occupation of dotting every 
fourth word. 

Brinkly had overheard Allen’s taunt. Closing his book 
after a moment’s pause, he walked straight to him and 
said : 

Allen Thigpen, I am no more afraid of him than you 
are ; nor than I am of you. Do you think that’s what 
makes me stand what I do? If you do, you are much 
mistaken. I’m trying all the time to keep down on mother’s 
account. I’ve told her of some of his treatment, but not 
all ; and she gets to crying, and says this is my only chance 
for an ejication, and it does seem like it would break her 
heart if I was to lose it, that I have been trying to get the 
lessons, and to keep from fighting him when he beats me. 
And I believe I would get ’em if I had a chance. But the 
fact is, I can’t read well enough to study the jography, and 
my ’pinion is he put me in it too soon just to get the extra 
price for jography. And I can’t get it, and I haven’t 
learned anything since I have been put in it ; and I am 
not going to stand it much longer ; and, Allen Thigpen, 
I’m not going to pay you chestnuts nor nothing else not to 
tell him I said so neither.” 

'^Hooraw!” shouted Allen. Give me your hand, 
Brinkly.” Then, continuing in a lower tone, he said, '' By 
jingo! I thought it was in you. I seen you many a time, 
when, says I to myself, it wouldn’t take much to make 
Brinkly Glisson fight you, old fellow, or leastways try it. 
You’ve stood enough already, Brinkly Glisson, and too 
much, too. My blood has biled many a time when he’s 
been a-beatin’ you. I tell you, don’t you stand it no 


lO 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


longer. Ef he beats you again, pitch into him. Try to 
ride him from the ingoin’. He can maul you, I expect, 
but — look at this,” and Allen raised his fist, about the size 
of a mallet. 

Brinkly looked at the big fist and brawny arm, and 
smiled dismally. 

Books!” shouted a shrill voice, and Mr. Israel 
Meadows emerged from the thicket with a handful of 
hickory switches. In an instant there was a rushing of 
boys and girls into the house — all except Allen, who took 
his time. Asa Boatright was the last of the others to get 
in. He had changed his position from the stump, and was 
walking, book in hand, apparently all absorbed in its con- 
tents, though his eye was on the schoolmaster, whose 
notice he was endeavoring to attract. He bowed and 
digged and dived, until, just as the master drew near, he 
weariedly looked up, and, seeing him unexpectedly, gave 
one more profound dive into the book and darted into the 
house. 

It was a rule at the Goosepond that the scholars should 
all be at their seats when Mr. Meadows arrived. His 
wont was to shout Books ” from the mouth of the path, 
then to walk with great rapidity to the house. Woe to the 
boy or girl who was ever too late, unless it happened to be 
Allen Thigpen. He had been heard to say : 

“ Ding any sich rule, and I ain’t goin’ to break my neck 
for Iserl Meadows nor nobody else.” If he got in behind 
the master, which often happened, that gentleman was kind 
enough not to notice it — an illustration of an exception to 
the good discipline of country schoolmasters common in 
the times in which Mr. Meadows lived and flourished. 
On this occasion, when Mr. Meadows saw Allen, calculating 
that the gait at which he himself was walking would take 
him into the house first, he halted a little, stooped, and. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 1 1 

having untied one of his shoe-strings, tied it again. While 
this operation was going on, Allen went in. Mr. Meadows, 
rising immediately, struck into a brisk walk, almost a run, 
as if to apologize for his delay, and then entered upon the 
scene of his daily triumphs. 

But, before we begin the day’s work, let us inquire who 
this person was, and whence he came. 


CHAPTER III. 

Mr. Israel Meadows was a man thirty-five or forty 
years of age, five feet ten inches in height, with a lean 
figure, dark complexion, very black and shaggy hair and 
eyebrows, and a grim expression of countenance. The 
occupation of training the youthful mind and leading it to 
the fountains of wisdom, as delightful and interesting as it 
is, was not, in fact, Mr. Meadows’ choice, when, on arriving 
at manhood’s estate, he looked around him for a career in 
which he might the most surely develop and advance his 
being in this life. Indeed, those who had been the wit- 
nesses of his youth and young manhood, and of the oppor- 
tunities which he had been favored withal for getting instruc- 
tion for himself, were no little surprised when they heard 
that in the county of Hancock their old acquaintance 
was in the actual prosecution of the profession of school- 
master. About a couple of days’ journey from the Goose- 
pond was the spot which had the honor of giving him birth. 
In a cottage on one of the roads leading to the city 
of Augusta there had lived a couple who cultivated a 
farm, and traded with the wagoners of those days by bar- 
tering, for money and groceries, corn, fodder, potatoes, 
and such-like commodities. It was a matter never fully 


12 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


accountable how it was that Mr. Timothy Meadows, during 
all seasons, had com to sell. Drought or drench affected 
his crib alike. When a wagoner wished to buy corn, 
Timothy Meadows generally had a little to spare. People 
used to intimate sometimes that it was curious that some 
folks could always have corn to sell, while other folks 
could not. Such observations were made in reference to 
no individual in particular ; but were generally made by 
one farmer to another, when, perchance, they had just 
ridden by Mr. Meadows' house while a wagoner’s team was 
feeding at his camp. To this respectable couple there had 
been born only one offspring, a daughter. Miss Clary 
Meadows had lived to the age of twenty-four, and had 
never, within the knowledge of any of the neighbors, had 
the first beau. If to the fact that her father’s always 
having com to sell, without his neighbors knowing exactly 
how he came by it, had to a considerable extent dis- 
couraged visiting between their families and his, be added 
the further one, that Miss Clary was bony, and in no respect 
possessed of charms likely to captivate a young gentleman 
who had thoughts upon marriage, it ought not to be very 
surprising that she had, thus far, failed to secure a husband. 
Nevertheless, Miss Meadows was eminently affable when 
in the society of such gentlemen of the wagoners as 
paid her the compliment to call upon her in the house. 
So that no person, however suspicious, would have con- 
cluded from her manner on such occasions that her pro- 
longed state of single blessedness was owing to any prejudice 
against the opposite sex. 

Time, however, brings roses, as the German proverb 
has it, and to the Meadows family he at last brought a 
rosebud in the shape of a thriving grandson. As it does 
not become us to pry into delicate family matters, we will 
not presume to lift the veil which the persons most concerned 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


13 


chose to throw over the earlier part of this grandson^s his- 
tory ; suffice it to say that the same mystery hung about 
it as about the inexplicable inexhaustibility of Timothy 
Meadows' corn-crib, and that the latter — from motives, 
doubtless, which did him honor — bestowed upon the new- 
comer his own family name, preceded by the patriarchal 
appellation of Israel. 

There were many interesting occurrences in the early 
life of Israel which it would be foreign to the purposes of 
this history to relate. It is enough to say that he grew 
up under the eye and training of his grandfather, and soon 
showed that some of the traits of that gentleman's character 
were in no danger of being lost to society by a failure of 
reproduction. 

In process of time, Mr. and Mrs. Meadows were 
gathered to their fathers, and Miss Clary had become the 
proprietress of the cottage and the farm. Israel inherited 
the luck of the Meadowses to be always able to sell corn to 
the wagoners, and for many years had enjoyed it without 
serious molestation. But, unluckily, the secret of this un- 
usual prosperity, which lay hidden in such profundity 
during the lifetime of his grandfather, transpired about six 
months back. 

One Saturday night, a company of the neighbors on 
patrol found a negro man issuing from the gate of Miss 
Meadows' yard with an empty meal-bag. Having appre- 
hended him, he confessed that he had just carried the bag 
full of corn to Israel from his master's corn-crib. The 
company immediately aroused the latter gentleman, in- 
formed him what the negro had told, and, although he 
did most stoutly deny any and all manner of connection 
with the matter, they informed him that they should not 
leave the premises until they could get a search-warrant 
from a neighboring magistrate, by which they could iden- 


14 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


tify the com. This was a ruse to bring him to terms. See- 
ing his uneasiness, they pushed on, and in a careless man- 
ner proposed that if he would leave the neighborhood by 
the next Monday morning they would forbear to prosecute 
him for this as well as many similar offenses, his guilt of 
which, they intimated, they had abundant proof to establish. 
He was caught. He reflected for a few moments, and 
then, still asserting his innocence, but declaring that he 
did not wish to reside in a community where he was sus- 
pected of crime, he expressed his resolution to comply with 
their demand. He left the next day. Leaving his mother, 
he set out to try his fortune elsewhere, intending, by the 
time that the homestead could be disposed of, to remove 
with her to the west. But, determining not to be idle in 
the meantime, after wandering about for several days in 
search of employment, it suddenly occurred to him one 
night, after a day’s travel, that he would endeavor to get a 
school for the remainder of the year. 

Now, his education had been somewhat neglected. In- 
deed, he had never been to school a day in his whole life. 
At home, under the tuition of his mother, he had been 
taught reading and writing, and his grandfather had im- 
parted to him some knowledge of arithmetic. 

But Mr. Israel Meadows, although not a man of great 
learning, was a great way removed from being a fool. He 
had a considerable amount of the wisdom of this world 
which comes to a man from other sources besides books. 
He was like many other men in one respect. He was not 
to be restrained from taking office by the consciousness 
of attainments inadequate to the discharge of its duties. 
This is a species of delicacy which, of all others, is at- 
tended by fewest practical results. Generally, the most it 
does is to make its owner confess with modesty his unfit- 
ness for the office, with a ‘^he had hoped some worthier 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


15 


and better man had been chosen,” and then — take it. 
Israel wisely reflected that with a majority of mankind the 
only thing necessary to establish for one’s self a reputation 
of fitness for office is to run for it and get into it. A wise 
reflection indeed ; acting on which, many men have seemed 
to become great in Georgia, and, I doubt not, elsewhere, 
with no other capital than the adroitness or the accident 
which placed them in office. He reflected further, and as 
wisely as before, that the office of a schoolmaster in a 
country school was as little likely as any he could think of 
to furnish an exception to the general rule. Thus, in less 
than six weeks from the eventful Saturday night, with a 
list of school articles which he had picked up in his travels, 
he had applied for and had obtained and had opened the 
Goosepond school, and was professing to teach the chil- 
dren spelling, reading, and writing at the rate of a dollar 
a month, and arithmetic and geography at the advanced 
rate of a dollar and a half. 

Such were some of Mr. Meadows’ antecedents. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was the custom of the pupils in the Goosepond, as 
in most of the other country schools of those times, to 
study aloud. Whether the teachers thought that the mind 
could not act unless the tongue was going, or that the 
tongue going was the only evidence that the mind was act- 
ing, it never did appear. Such had been the custom, and 
Mr. Meadows did not aspire to be an innovator. It was 
his rule, however, that there should be perfect silence on 
his arrival, in order to give him an opportunity of saying 
or doing anything he might wish. This morning there did 


i6 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


not seem to be anything heavy on his mind which required 
to be lifted off. He, however, looked at Brinkly Glisson 
with an expression of some disappointment. He had 
beaten him the morning before for not having gotten there 
in time, though the boy^s excuse was that he had gone a 
mile out of his way on an errand for his mother. He 
looked at him as if he had expected to have had some 
business with him, which now unexpectedly had to be post- 
poned. He then looked around over the school, and said : 

Go to studyin’.’^ 

He had been in the habit of speaking but to command, 
and of commanding but to be obeyed. Instantaneously 
was heard, then and there, that unintelligible tumult, the 
almost invariable incident of the country schools of that 
generation. There were spellers and readers, geographers 
and arithmeticians, all engaged in their several pursuits, 
in the most inexplicable confusion. Sometimes the spellers 
would have the heels of the others, and sometimes the 
readers. The geographers were always third, and the 
arithmeticians always behind. It was very plain to be seen 
that these last never would catch the others. The faster 
they added or subtracted, the oftener they had to rub out 
and commence anew. It was always but a short time be- 
fore they found this to be the case, and so they generally 
concluded to adopt the maxim of the philosopher, of being 
slow in making haste. The geographers were a little faster 
and a little louder. But the spellers and readers had it, I 
tell you. Each speller and each reader went through the 
whole gamut of sounds, from low up to high, and from 
high down to low again ; sometimes by regular ascension 
and descension, one note at a time, sounding wEat mu- 
sicians call the diatonic intervals ; at other times, going up 
and coming down upon the perfect fifths only. It was 
refreshing to see the passionate eagerness wEich these 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


17 


urchins manifested for the acquisition of knowledge! To 
have heard them for the first time, one might possibly have 
been reminded of the Apostles^ preaching at Pentecost, 
when were spoken the languages of the Parthians and 
Medes, Elamites and the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in 
J udea and Cappadocia ; in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and 
Pamphylia; in Egypt and in the parts of Syria about 
Cyrene; and strangers of Rome, Jews and Proselytes, 
Cretes and Arabians. Sometimes these jarring tongues 
subsided a little, when half a dozen or so would stop to 
blow ; but in the next moment the chorus would swell again 
in a new and hvelier accrescendo. When this process had 
gone on for half an hour, Mr. Meadows hfted up his voice 
and shouted, Silence!” and all was still 

Now were to commence the recitations, during which 
stillness like that of death was required. For as great a 
help to study as this jargon was, Mr. Meadows found that 
it did not contribute any aid to the doing of his work. 

He now performed an interesting feat. He put his 
hand behind the lapel of his coat-collar, and then, after 
withdrawing it, and holding it up, his thumb and forefinger 
joined together, he said : 

There is too much fuss here. I^m going to drop this 
pin, and I shall whip every single one of you little boys 
that don't hear it when it falls. Thar! ” 

'' I heerd it, Mr. Meadows! I heerd it, Mr. Meadows! ” 
exclaimed, simultaneously, five or six little fellows. 

Come up here, you little rascals. You are a liar! ” said 
he to each one. “ I never drapped it ; I never had nary 
one to drap. It just shows what liars you are. Set down 
and wait awhile. I'll show you how to tell me lies.” 

The little liars slunk to their seats, and the recitations 
commenced. Memory was the only faculty of mind that 
got development at this school Whoever could say ex- 


i8 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


actly what the book said was adjudged to know his lesson. 
About half of the pupils on this morning were successful. 
The other half were found to be delinquent. Among these 
was Asa Boatright. That calculating young gentleman 
knew his words and felt safe. The class had spelled around 
three or four times, when lo ! the contingency which Allen 
Thigpen had suggested did come to pass. Betsy Wiggins 
missed her word; Heneritter Bangs (in the language of 
Allen) hern, and Mandy Grizzle hem ; and thus responsi- 
bilities were suddenly cast upon Asa which he was wholly 
unprepared to meet, and which, from the look of mighty 
reproach that he gave each of these young ladies as she 
handed over her word, he evidently thought it the height 
of injustice that he should have been called upon to meet. 
Mr. Meadows, closing the book, tossed it to Asa, who, 
catching it as it was falling at his feet, turned, and his eyes 
swimming with tears, went back to his seat. As he passed 
Allen Thigpen, the latter whispered : 

“ What did I tell you? You heerd the pin drap too! ” 

Now, Allen was in no plight to have given this taunt to 
Asa. He had not given five minutes^ study to his arith- 
metic during the whole morning. But Mr. Meadows made 
a rule (this one with himself, though all the pupils knew it 
better than any rule he had) never to allow Allen to miss 
a lesson ; and as he had kindly taken this responsibility 
upon himself, Allen was wont to give himself no trouble 
about the matter. 

Brinkly Glisson was the last to recite. Brinkly was no 
great hand at pronunciation. He had been reading but a 
short time when Mr. Meadows advanced him into geogra- 
phy, with the purpose, as Brinkly afterward came to be- 
lieve, of getting the half-dollar extra tuition. This morning 
he thought he knew his lesson ; and he did, as he under- 
stood it. When called to recite, he went up with a counte- 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


19 


nance expressive of mild happiness, handed the book to 
Mr. Meadows, and, putting his hands in his pockets, 
awaited the questions. And now it was an interesting 
sight to see Mr. Meadows smile as Brinkly talked of is-lands 
and promonitaries, thismuses and hemispheries. The lad 
misunderstood that smile, and his heart was glad for the 
unexpected reception of a little complacency from the 
master. But he was not long in error. 

Is-lands, eh? Thismuses, eh? Take this book and 
see if you can find any is-lands and promonitaries, and 
then bring them to me. I want to see them things, I do. 
Find ’em, if you please.” 

Brinkly took the book, and it would have melted the 
heart of any other man to see the deep despair of his heart 
as he looked on it and was spelling over to himself the 
words as he came to them. 

“ Mr. Meadows,” he said, in pleading tones, I thought 
it was is-land. Here it is, I-s-is-l-a-n-d-land : is-land;” 
and he looked into his face beseechingly. 

Is-land, eh? Is-land! Now, thismuses and promoni- 
taries and hemispheries — ” 

“ Mr. Meadows, I did not know how to pronounce them 
words. I asked you how to pronounce ’em, and you 
wouldn’t tell me ; and I asked Allen, and he told me the 
way I said them.” 

I believe that to be a lie.” Brinkly ’s face reddened, 
and his breathing was fast and hard. He looked at the 
master as but once or twice before during the term, but 
made no answer. At that moment Allen leaned carelessly 
on his desk, his elbows resting on it, and his chin on his 
hands, and said dryly : 

Yes, I did tell him so.” 

The man reddened a little. After a moment’s pause, 
however, he said : 


20 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


How often have I got to tell you not to ask anybody 
but me how to pronounce words ? That’ll do, sir ; set down, 
sir.” 

Brinkly went back to his seat, and, looking gloomily 
toward the door a minute or two, he opened his book, 
but studied it no more. 


CHAPTER V. 

Mr. Meadows now set about what was the most agree- 
able portion of the duties of his new vocation, the punish- 
ment of offenders. The lawyers tell us that, of all the 
departments of the law, the vindicatory is the most impor- 
tant. This element of the Goosepond establishment had 
been cultivated so much that it had grown beyond all 
reasonable proportion to the others. As for the declaratory 
and the directory^ they seemed to be considered, when clearly 
understood, as impediments to a fair showing and proper 
development of the vindicatory, insomuch that the last 
was often by their means disappointed of its victim. 
Sometimes, when his urchins would not miss,” or violate 
some of his numerous laws, Mr. Meadows used, in the 
plenitude of his power, to put the vindicatory first — punish 
an offender, declare what the latter had done to be an offense 
and then direct him that he had better not do so any 
more. Mr. Meadows, indeed, seemed to owe a grudge to 
society. Whether this was because society had not given 
him a father as it had done to almost everybody else, or 
because it had interfered in the peaceful occupation which 
had descended from his grandfather (as if to avenge itself 
on him for violating one of its express commands that 
such as he should inherit from nobody), did not appear. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


21 


But he owed it, and he delighted in paying it off in his 
peculiar way ; this was by beating the children of his school, 
every one of whom had a father. Eminently combative 
by nature, it was both safest and most satisfactory to wage 
his warfare on this general scale. So, on this fine morning, 
by way of taking up another instalment of this immense 
debt, which like most other debts seemed as if it never 
would get fully paid, he took down his bundle of rods from 
two pegs in one of the logs on which he had placed them, 
selected one fit for his purpose, and taking his position in 
the middle of the space between the fireplace and the rows 
of desks, he sat down in his chair. A moderate smile over- 
spread his countenance as he said : 

‘‘Them spellin’ classes and readin’ classes, and them 
others that’s got to be whipped, all but Sam Pate and Asa 
Boatright, come to the circus.” 

Five or six boys and as many girls, from eight to thirteen 
years old, came up, and, sitting down on the front bench 
which extended all along the length of the two rows of 
desks, pulled off their shoes and stockings. The boys then 
rolled up their pants, and the girls lifted the skirts of their 
frocks to their knees, and, having made a ring around the 
master as he sat in his chair, all began a brisk trot. They 
had described two or three revolutions, and he was 
straightening his switch, when Asa Boatright ran up, and, 
crying piteously, said : 

“ Please, sir, Mr. Meadows — oh pray do, sir, Mr. Mead- 
ows — let me go into the circus ! ” 

Mr. Meadows rose and was about to strike ; but another 
thought seemed to occur to him. He looked at him amus- 
edly for a moment, and pointed to his seat. Asa took it. 
Mr. Meadows resumed his chair, and proceeded to tap 
the legs, both male and female, as they trotted around 
him. This was done at first very gently, and almost lov- 


22 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ingly. But as the sport wanned in interest, the blows in- 
creased in rapidity and violence. The children began to 
cry out, and then he struck the harder ; for it was a rule 
(oh! he was a mighty man for rules, this same Mr. Mead- 
ows) that whoever cried the loudest should be hit the hard- 
est. He kept up this interesting exercise until he had given 
them about twenty-five lashes apiece. He then ceased. 
They stopped instantly, walked around him once, then, 
seating themselves upon the bench, they resumed their 
shoes and stockings, and went to their seats. One girl, 
thirteen years old, Henrietta Bangs, had begged him to let 
her keep on her stockings ; but he was too firm a discipli- 
narian to allow it. When the circus was over she put on 
her shoes, and, taking up her stockings and putting them 
under her apron, she went to her seat and sobbed as if her 
heart were broken. 

Allen Thigpen looked at her for a moment, and then he 
turned his eyes slowly around and looked at Brinkly Glis- 
son. He sat with his hands in his pockets and his lips 
compressed. Allen knew what struggle was going on, 
but he could not tell how it would end. Mr. Meadows 
rested three minutes. 

It has possibly occurred to those who may be reading 
this little history that it was a strange thing in Asa Boat- 
right, who so well knew all the ways of Mr. Meadows, 
that he should have expressed so decisive a wish to take 
part in this last described exhibition — an exhibition which, 
however entertaining to Mr. Meadows as it doubtless was, 
and might be perchance to other persons placed in the at- 
titude of spectators merely, could not be in the highest de- 
gree agreeable to one in the attitude which Master Asa 
must have foreseen that he would be made to assume had 
Mr. Meadows vouchsafed to yield to his request. But 
Asa Boatright was not a fool, nor was he a person who had 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


23 

no care for his physical well-being. In other words, Asa 
Boatright knew what he was about. 

‘'Sam Pate and Asa Boatright!” exclaimed Mr. Mead- 
ows, after his rest. “ Come out here and go to horsin’.” 

The two nags came out. Master Pate inclined himself 
forward, and Master Boatright leaped with some agility 
upon his back. The former, gathering the latter’s legs 
under his arms, and drawing as tightly as possible his pants 
across his middle, began galloping gayly around the area 
before the fireplace. Mr. Meadows, after taking a fresh 
hickory, began to apply it with force and precision to that 
part of Master Boatright’s little body which in his present 
attitude was most exposed. Every application of this kind 
caused that young gentleman to scream, and even to make 
spasmodic efforts to kick, which Master Pate, being for 
the occasion a horse, was to understand as an expression 
on the part of his rider that he should get on faster, and 
so Master Pate must frisk and prance and otherwise imi- 
tate a horse as well as possible in the circumstances. 
Now, the circumstances being that as soon as Master Boat- 
right should have ridden long enough to become incapac- 
itated from riding a real horse with comfort, they were to 
reverse positions. Master Boatright becoming horse and 
himself rider, they were hardly sufficient to make him en- 
tirely forget his identity in the personation of that quadru- 
ped. He did his best, though, in the circumstances, and 
not only frisked and pranced, but neighed several times. 
When Asa was placed in the condition hinted at above, he 
was allowed to dismount. Sam having mounted on his 
back, it was stirring to the feelings to see the latter kick 
and the former prance. This was always the best part of 
the show. A rule of this exercise was that, when the rider 
should dismount and become horse, he was to act well his 
part or be made to resume the part of rider — a prospect 


24 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


not at all agreeable, each one decidedly preferring to be 
horse. Sam was about three years older and fifteen 
pounds heavier than Asa. Now, while Asa had every 
motive which as sensible a horse as he was could have to 
do his best, yet he was so sore, and Sam, with the early 
prospect of butting his brains out, was so heavy, that he 
had great difficulties. He exhibited the most laudable de- 
sire and made the most faithful efforts to prance, but he 
could not keep his feet. Finding that he could do no 
great things at prancing, he endeavored to make up by 
neighing. When Sam would cry out and kick, Asa would 
neigh. He would occasionally run against the wall and 
neigh as if he were delighted. He would lift up one foot 
and neigh. He would put it down, lift up the other and 
neigh. Then when he attempted to lift up both feet at 
once, he would fall down and neigh. Again would he 
neigh even in the act of rising, apparently resolved to 
convince the world that, notwithstanding appearances to 
the contrary, he was as plucky a little horse as had ever 
trotted. Never before had Asa acted his part so well in 
the horsin^ at the Goosepond. Never had horse, with such 
odds on his back, neighed so lustily. Sam screamed and 
kicked. Asa pranced and neighed, until at last, as he 
stumbled violently against the bench, Sam let go his hold 
upon his neck, in order to avoid breaking his own, and 
fell sprawling on his belly under a desk. This sudden re- 
moval of the burden from Asa’s back made his efforts to 
recover from his false step successful beyond all calcula- 
tion, and he fell backward, head-foremost, upon the floor. 
Mr. Meadows, contrary to his wont, roared with laughter. 
He dropped his switch, and ordered them to their seats. 
They obeyed, and sat down with that graduated declen- 
sion of body in which experience had taught them to be 
prudent. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


25 


. CHAPTER VI. 

After the close of the last performance, Mr. Meadows 
seemed to need another resting spell. He always liked to 
be as fresh as possible for the next scene. The most in- 
teresting, the most exciting, and in some respects the most 
delightful exercise was yet to follow. This was the pun- 
ishment of Brinkly Glisson. 

Now, Brinkly was one of the best boys in the world. 
He was the only son of a poor widow, who, at much sac- 
rifice, had sent him to school. He had pitched and tended 
the crop of a few acres around the house, and she had pro- 
cured the promise of a neighbor to help her in gathering it 
when ripe. Brinkly was the apple of her eye, the idol of 
her heart. He was to her as we always think of him of 
whom it was said, He was the only son of his mother, 
and she was a widow.’’ And Brinkly had rewarded her 
love and care with all the feelings of his honest, affection- 
ate heart. He was more anxious to learn for her sake 
than his own. He soon came to read tolerably well, and 
was advanced to geography. How proud was the widow 
when she bought the new geography and atlas with the 
proceeds of four pairs of socks which she had knit with 
her own hands. What a world of knowledge, she thought, 
there must be in a book with five times as many pages as 
a spelling-book, and in those great red, blue, and pink 
pictures, covering a whole page a foot square, and all 
this knowledge to become the property of Brinkly! But 
Brinkly soon found that geography was above his pres- 
ent capacity, and so told Mr. Meadows. That gentle- 
man received the communication with displeasure; said 
that what was the matter with him was laziness, and that 


26 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


laziness, of all the qualities which a boy had, was the one 
which he knew best what to do with. He then took to 
beating him. Brinkly, after the first beating, which was a 
light one, went home and told his mother of it, and inti- 
mated his intention not to take another. The widow was 
sorely distressed, and knew not what to do. On the one 
hand was her grief to know her son was unjustly beaten, 
and his spirit cowed ; for she knew that he studied all the 
time he had, and, though uneducated herself, she was not 
like many other parents of her day who thought that the 
best means to develop the mind was to beat the body. But 
on the other hand would be his failing to obtain an educa- 
tion if he should leave the school, there being then no other 
in the neighborhood. This, thought the poor woman, was 
the worst horn of the dilemma; and so she wept, and 
begged him, as he loved her, to submit. He should have 
the more time for study ; she would chop the wood and 
feed the stock ; he should have all the time at home to him- 
self ; he could get it, she knew he could ; it would come 
to him after awhile. 

Brinkly yielded ; but how many a hard struggle he made 
to continue that submission no one knew but he. Mr. 
Meadows could see this struggle sometimes. He knew 
that the boy was not afraid of him. He saw it in his eye 
every time he beat him, and it was this which imparted such 
eagerness to continue. He wished to subdue him, and he 
had not succeeded. Brinkly would never beg nor weep. 
Mr. Meadows often thought he was on the point of re- 
sisting him ; but he knew the reason why he did not, and, 
while he hated him for it, he trusted that it would last. 
Yet he often doubted whether it would or not; and thus 
the matter became so intensely exciting that he continually 
sought for opportunities of bringing it up. He loved to 
tempt him. He had no doubt but that he could easily 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


27 


manage him in an even combat ; but he did not wish it to 
come to that. He only gloried in goading him almost to 
resistance, and then seeing him yield. 

Have we not all seen how the showman adapts himself 
to the different animals of the menagerie? How quickly 
and sharply he speaks to the lesser animals, which jump 
over his wand and back, and over and back again, and 
then crouch in submission as he passes by! But when he 
goes to the lion, you can scarcely hear his low tones as he 
commands him to rise and perform his part, and is not 
certain whether the king of the beasts will do as he is bid- 
den or not. Doubts like these were in the mind of Mr. 
Meadows whenever he was about to set upon Brinkly Glis- 
son ; but, the greater these doubts, the more he enjoyed 
the trial. After a short rest from the fatigues of the last 
exercise, during which he curiously and seriously eyed the 
lad, he rose from his seat, paced slowly across the room 
once or twice, and taking a hickory switch, the longest of 
all he had, he stopped in the middle of the floor, and in a 
low, quiet tone, said: 

“ Brinkly Glisson, come.” 

Allen had been eying Brinkly all the time since the close 
of the circus. He noted the conflict which was going on 
in his soul, and he thought he saw that the conflict was 
going to end. 

Slowly and calmly Brinkly rose from his seat, and walked 
up and stood before Mr. Meadows. 

Why, hi! ” thought Allen. 

'' Off with your coat, sir ” — low and gentle, and with a 
countenance almost smiling. Brinkly stood motionless. 
But he had done so once or twice before, in similar cir- 
cumstances, and at length had yielded. '' Off with it, sir ” — 
louder and not so gentle. No motion on Brinkly ’s part, 
not even in his eyes, which looked steadily into the mas- 


28 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ter’s, with a meaning which he nearly, but not quite, under- 
stood. 

Ain’t you going to pull off that coat, sir? ” 

What for?” asked Brinkly. 

*^What for, sir?” 

''Yes, sir; what for? ” 

" Because I am going to give you this hickory, you im- 
pudent scoundrel ; and if you don’t pull it off this minute. 
I’ll give you sich a beatin’ as’ll make you feel like you 
never was whipped before since you was born. Ain’t you 
going to pull it off, sir? ” 

" Not now, sir?” 

Allen wriggled on his seat, and his face shone as the full 
moon. Mr. Meadows retreated a step, and holding his 
switch two feet from the larger end, he raised that end to 
strike. 

" Stop one minute, if you please.” 

Mr. Meadows lowered his arm, and his face smiled a 
triumph. This was the first time Brinkly had ever begged. 
He chuckled. Allen looked disappointed. 

"Stop, eh? I yi! This end looks heavy, does it? 
Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it warn’t sorter heavy. 
Will you pull off your coat now, sir? ” 

" Mr. Meadows, I asked you to stop because I wanted 
to say a few words to you. You have beat me and beat 
me, worse than you ought to beat a dog ” (Allen’s face get- 
ting right again) ; " and God in heaven knows that, in the 
time that I have come to school to you, I have tried as 
hard as a boy ever did to please you and get my lessons. 
I can’t understand that jography, and I ain’t been readin’ 
long enough to understand it. I have asked you to let me 
quit. Mother has asked you. You wouldn’t do it; but 
beat me, and beat me, and beat me ” (there is no telling 
whether Allen wants to laugh or cry), " and now, the more 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


29 


I study it, the more I don’t understand it. I would have 
quit school long ago, but mother was so anxious for me to 
learn, and made me come. And now I have took off my 
coat to you the last time.” (Ah! now there is a great tear 
in Allen’s eye.) Listen to me ” (as the teacher’s hand 
makes a slight motion) ; '' don’t strike me. I know I’m 
not leamin’ anything, and your heatin’ ain’t going to make 
me learn any faster. If you are determined to keep me 
in this jography, and to beat me, just say so, and I’ll take 
my hat and books and go home. I’d like to not come to- 
day, but I thought I knew my lesson. Now, I say again, 
don’t, for God’s sake, don’t strike me.” And he raised up 
both his hands, pale and trembling. 

It would be impossible to describe the surprise and rage 
expressed on the face of Mr. Meadows during the delivery 
and at the close of this little harangue. He looked at the 
boy a moment. Brinkly’s countenance expressed the deepest 
sadness ; but there was nothing it like defiance or threaten- 
ing. It was simply sad and beseeching. The master hes- 
itated, and looked around upon his school. It would not 
do to retreat now, he thought. With an imprecation, he 
raised his switch and struck with all his might. 

“ My God I ” cried the boy ; but in an instant sadness 
and beseeching passed from his face. The long-pent-up 
resentment of his soul gushed forth, and the fury of a de- 
mon glared from his eyes. He was preparing to spring 
upon Mr. Meadows, when the latter, by a sudden rush, 
caught him and thrust him backward over the front bench. 
They both tumbled on the floor, between the rows of desks, 
Mr. Meadows uppermost. 

'' It’s come,” said Allen quietly, as he rose and looked 
down upon the combatants ; “ it’s been a long time a- 
comin’, and by good rights ought to a come long ago ; but 
it’s come now.” 


30 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Mr. Meadows attempted to disengage himself and rise ; 
but Brinkly would rise with him. After several attempts 
at this, Brinkly managed to get upon one knee, and, by a 
violent jerk, to bring his assailant down upon the floor, 
where they were, in the phraseology of the wrestling-ring, 
cross and pile. Mr, Meadows shouted to two or three of 
the boys to hold Brinkly until he could rise. They rose to 
obey, but Allen, without saying a word, put out his hand 
before them, and, motioning them to their seats, they re- 
sumed them. And now the contest set in for good, Mr. 
Meadows struggling to recover his advantage, and Brinkly 
to improve what he had gained. The former’s right arm 
was thrown across the latter’s neck, his right hand wound 
in and pulling violently his hair, while his left hand pressed 
against his breast. Brinkly ’s left leg was across Mr. Mead- 
ows’ middle, and with his right against a stationary desk, 
his right arm bent and lying under him like a lizard’s, and 
his left in Mr. Meadows’ shirt-collar, he struggled to get 
uppermost ; but whenever he attempted to raise his head, 
that hand wound in his hair would instantly bring it back 
to the floor. When Mr. Meadows attempted to disengage 
himself from underneath Brinkly ’s leg, that member, as- 
sisted by its brother from the desk, against which it was 
pressed, held it like the boa holds the bullock. Oh, Mr. 
Meadows, Mr. Meadows! you don’t know the boy that 
grapples with you. You have never known anything at 
all about him. You blow, Mr. Meadows! See! Brinkly 
blows not half so hard. Remember, you walk a mile to 
and from the school, and Brinkly seven, often running the 
first half. Besides, there is something in Brinkly’s soul 
which will not let him tire now. The remembrance of 
long-continued wrongs, that cannot longer be borne ; the 
long-subdued but now inextinguishable desire of revenge ; 
every hostile feeling except fear — all these are now domi- 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


31 


nant in that simple heart, and they have made of him a 
man, and if you hope to conquer you must fight as you 
never have fought before, and never may have to fight 
again. 

Your right hand pulls less vigorously at the hair of Brink- 
ly^s ascending head. Look there! Brinkly’s leg has 
moved an inch further across you! Wring and twist, Mr. 
Meadows, for right under that leg, if anywhere for you, is 
now the post of honor. Can’t you draw out your left leg 
and plant it against the desk behind you, as Brinkly does 
with his right? Alas! no. Brinkly has now made a hook 
of his left, and his heel is pressing close into the cavity be- 
hind your knee. Ah! that was an unlucky move for you 
then, when you let Brinkly’s hair go, and thrust both of 
your hands at his eyes. You must have done that in a 
passion. But see there, now ! he has released his grasp at 
your shirt-collar, and thrown his left arm over you. Good- 
morning to you now, Mr. Meadows! 

In the instant that Mr. Meadows had released his hold 
upon his hair, Brinkly, though he was being gouged terri- 
bly, released his hold upon his collar, threw his arm over 
his neck, and pushing with all his might with his right leg 
against the desk, and making a corresponding pull with his 
left, he succeeded in getting fully upon him ; then, spring- 
ing up quick as lightning, as Mr. Meadows, panting, his 
eyes gleaming with the fury of an enraged tiger, was at- 
tempting to rise, he dealt him a blow in the face with his 
fist which sent him back bleeding like a butchered beast. 
Once more the master attempted to rise, and those who 
saw it will never forget that piteous spectacle of rage, and 
shame, and pain, and fear. Once more Brinkly struck 
him back. How that boy’s face shone out with those 
gaudia certamifiis which the brave always feel when in the 
midst of an inevitable and righteous combat! Springing 
3 


32 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


upon his adversary again, and seizing his arms and pinion- 
ing them under his knees, he wound his hands in his shaggy 
hair, and raising his head, thrust it down several times with 
all his might against the floor. 

Spare me! for God's sake, spare me!" cried Mr. 
Meadows, in tones never before heard from him in that 
house. 

Brinkly stopped. “Spare you!” he said, now panting 
himself. “Yes! you who never spared anything that you 
could hurt! Poor coward! You loved to beat other peo- 
ple, and gloried in seeing them suffering, and when they 
begged you to spare them, you laughed — you did. Oh, , 
how I have heard you laugh, when they asked you to spare 
them ! And now, beat yourself and whipped, you beg like 
a dog. Yes, and I will spare you,” he continued, rising 
from him. “It would be a pity to beat any such a poor 
cowardly human any longer. Now go! and make them 
poor things there go to horsin' again, and cut 'em in two 
again! and then get in the circus ring, and make them 
others, girls and all — yes, girls and all — hold up their 
clothes and trot around you, and when they cry like you, 
and beg you to spare ’em, do you laugh again! ” 

He rose and turned away from him. Gathering up his 
books, he went to the peg whereon his hat was hanging, 
and was in the act of taking it down, when a sudden re- 
vulsion of feeling came over him, and he sat down and 
wept and wept. 

The feelings in that poor boy's breast! The recollec- 
tion of the wrongs he had suffered ; of the motives, so full 
of pious duty, which had made him endure them; the 
thought of how mistaken had been the wish of his mother 
that he should endure them ; and then of how terribly they 
had been avenged : these all meeting at once in his gen- 
tle, untaught spirit, overcame it, and broke it into weeping. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


33 


Meanwhile, other things were going on. Mr. Meadows, 
haggard, bruised, bleeding, covered with dirt, slunk off to- 
ward the fireplace, sat down in his chair, and buried his 
face in his hands. The pupils had been in the highest 
states of alternate alarm and astonishment. They were 
now all standing about their seats, looking alternately at 
Brinkly and Mr. Meadows, but at the latter mostly. Their 
countenances plainly indicated that this was a sight which, 
in their minds, had never before been vouchsafed to mor- 
tal vision. A schoolmaster whipped! beat! choked! his 
head bumped! and that by one of his pupils! And that 
schoolmaster Mr. Meadows! — Mr. Meadows, who, ten 
minutes before, had been in the exercise of sovereign and 
despotic authority ! And then to hear him beg ! A school- 
master ! — Mr. Meadows! — to hear him actually beg Brinkly 
to spare him ! They actually began to feel not only pity, 
but some resentment at what had been done. They were 
terrified, and to some extent miserable, at the sight of so 
much power, so much authority, so much royalty dishon- 
ored and laid low. Brinkly seemed to them to have been 
transformed. He was a murderer! a regicide! ! Talk 
of the divine right of kings! There was never more rev- 
erence felt for it than the children in country schools felt 
for the kingly dignity of the schoolmaster of sixty years 
agone. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Allen Thigpen was the only one of the pupils who did 
not lose his wits while the events of the last few minutes 
were taking place. While the contest was even between 
the combatants, he stood gazing down upon them with the 
most intense interest. His body was bent down slightly. 


34 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


and his arms were extended in a semicircle, as if to exclude 
the rest of the world from a scene which he considered all 
his own. When Mr. Meadows called for quarter, Allen 
folded his arms across his breast, and to a tune which was 
meant for '' Auld Lang Syne,” and which sounded, indeed, 
more like that than any other, he sang as he turned off, 

Jerusalem, my happy home.” 

When Mr. Meadows had taken his seat, he looked at 
him for a moment or two as if hesitating what to do. He 
then walked slowly to him, and delivered the following 
oration : 

''It’s come to it at last, jest as I said. I seen it from 
the fust ; you ought to a seen it yourself, but you wouldn’t, 
ur you couldn’t, and I don’t know which, and it makes no 
odds which ; you didn’t. I did, and now it’s come, and 
sich a heatin’, Jerusalem ! But don’t you be too much 
took back by it. You wam’t goin’ to keep school here no 
longer’n to-day, nohow. Now, I had laid off in my mind 
to have gin you a duckin’ this very day ; and I’ll tell you 
for why. Not as I’ve got anything particklar agin you 
myself ; you have not said one word out of the way to me 
this whole term. But, in the fust place, it’s not my opin- 
ion, nor hain’t been for some time, that you are fitten to 
be a schoolmarster. Thar’s them sums in intrust which I 
can’t work, and which you can’t show me how to work, or 
hain’t yit, though I’ve been cipherin’ in it now two months. 
And thar’s Mely Jones, that’s in the sariie, and she hain’t 
learnt ’em neither, and dinged if I believe all the fault’s in 
me and her, and in course it can’t be in the book. But 
that ain’t the main thing; it’s your imposin’ disposition. 
If this here schoolhouse,” he continued, looking around — 
"if this here schoolhouse hain’t seen more unmerciful 
beatin’ than any other schoolhouse in this country, then I 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


35 


say it’s a pity that thar’s any sich a thing as ejecation. 
And if the way things has been car’d on in this here 
schoolhouse sence you’ve been in it is the onliest way of 
getting of a ejecation, then I say again it’s a pity thar’s 
sich a thing. It ain’t worth while for me to name over all 
the ways you’ve had of tormentin’ o’ these children. You 
know ’em ; I know ’em ; everybody about this here school- 
house knows ’em. Now, as I said before, I had laid off 
to a gin you a duckin’ this very day, and this momin’ I 
was going to let Brinkly into it, tell I found that the time 
I seen was a cornin’ in him was done come ; and I knowed 
he wouldn’t jine in duckin’ you on account of his mother. 
I’ve been thinking o’ this for more’n two weeks, bekase — 
now listen to me ; didn’t you say you was from South 
Calliner? ” 

Pausing for, but not receiving, an answer, he con- 
tinued : 

‘^Yes, that’s what you said. Well, now. I’ve heem a 
man — a travelin’ man — who stayed all night at our house 
on his way to Fluriday, say he knowed you. You ain’t 
from South Calliner; I wish you was, but you ain’t; 
you’re from Columby County, and I’m ashamed to say it. 
He ast me, seein’ me a-studyin’, who I went to school 
to and when I told him ‘ Meadows,’ says he, ‘ What 
Meadows?’ ‘Iserl,’ says I. ‘Iserl Meadows a school- 
marster? ’ says he, and he laughed, he did ; he laughed fit 
to kill hisself. Well, he told me whar you was raised, and 
who you was. But you needn’t be too bad skeered. I 
ain’t told it to the fust human, and I ain’t going to, tell you 
leave. Now, I had laid off, as I told you, to gin you a 
duckin’, but I hain’t the heart to do it, and you in the fix 
you are now at the present.” 

Saying which, he puckered his mouth as if for a whistle, 
and stalked back to his seat. 


36 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Mr. Meadows, during the last few sentences of this 
harangue, had exhibited evidences of a new emotion. 
When Allen told him what the traveler had said, he looked 
up with a countenance full of terror, and, beckoning to him 
imploringly, they went out of the house together a few 
steps and stopped. 

I never done you any harm,” said Mr. Meadows. 

''You never did, certin shore,” answered Allen, "nor no 
particklar good. -But that’s neither here nor thar ; what 
do you want?” 

" Don’t tell what you heard tell I git away.” 

" Didn’t I say I wouldn’t? But you must leave tol- 
er’ble soon. I can’t keep it long. I fairly eech to tell it 
now.” 

The schoolmaster stood a moment, turning his hat in his 
hands, as if hesitating what sort of leave to take. He 
timidly offered Allen his hand. 

" I’d ruther not,” said Allen, and, for the first time, 
seemed a little embarrassed. Suddenly the man hauled 
his hat on his head and walked away. He had just en- 
tered the path in the thicket, and, turning unobserved, he 
paused, and looked back at the schoolhouse. The anger, 
the impotent rage, the chagrin and shame which were de- 
picted upon his bloodshot face! He paused but for a 
moment ; then, raising both his hands, and shaking them 
toward the house, without saying a word, he turned again 
and almost ran along the path. 

After he had gone, Allen took Mr. Meadow’s chair, and, 
crossing his legs, said : 

" Well, boys and gals, the Goosepond, it seem, are a 
broke-up school. The schoolmarster have, so to speak, 
absquatulated. Thar’s to be no more horsin’ here, and the 
circus are clean shot up. And the only thing I hates about 
it is, that it’s Brinkly that’s done it, and not me. But he 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


37 


wouldn’t give me a chance. No,” he continued sorrow- 
fully, and as if speaking to himself, “ he wouldn’t give me 
a chance. Nary single word could I ever git him to say 
to me out of the way. I have misted lessons : ’deed I 
never said none. I never kept nary single rule in his 
school, and yit he wouldn’t say nothin’ to me.” 

Then rising and going to Brinkly, he put his hand upon 
his shoulder. 

No, it’s jest as it ought to a been ; you was the one to 
do it ; and, in the name of all that’s jest, Brinkly Glisson, 
what is you been cryin’ about ? Git up, boy, and go and 
wash your face. I would rather have done what you’ve 
done than to a been the man that fooled the Tory in the 
Revolutionary War, and stoled his horse in the Life of 
Marion. Come along and wash that face and hands.” 

He almost dragged Brinkly to the pail, and poured 
water while he washed. 

The children, recovering from the consternation into 
which they had been thrown by the combat and its result, 
began to walk about the house, picking up their books and 
laying them down again. They would go to the door and 
look out toward Mr. Meadows’ path, as if expecting, 
and, indeed, half-way hoping, half-way fearing that he 
would return ; and then they would stand around Allen 
and Brinkly, as the latter was washing and drying himself. 
But they spoke not a word. Suddenly, Allen, mimicking 
the tone of Mr. Meadows, cried out : 

Asa Boatright and Sam Pate, go to horsin’ ! ” 

In a moment they all burst into shouts of laughter. 
Asa mounted upon Sam’s back, and Sam pranced about and 
neighed, oh, so gayly ! Allen got a switch and made as 
if he would strike Asa, and that young gentleman, for the 
first time in the performance of this interesting exercise, 
screamed with delight instead of pain, 


38 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


“ Let Asa be the schoolmarster,” shouted Allen. '' Good- 
moming, Mr. Boatright,” said he, with mock humility. 
“ Mr. Boatright, may I go out ? ” asked, timidly, half a 
dozen boys. 

Asa dismounted, and, seizing a hickory, he stood up in 
the middle of the floor, and the others formed the circus 
around him. Here they came and went, jumping over his 
switch, and crying out and stooping to rub their legs, and 
begging him to stop, ‘^for God’s sake, Mr. Boatright, 
stop ! ” 

Suddenly an idea struck Mr. Boatright. Disbanding 
the circus, he cried out : 

‘' You, Is’rl Meadows, come up here, sir. Been a 
fighten, have you, sir ? Come up, sir. Oh, here you are.” 

Mr. Boatright fell upon the teacher’s chair, and of all 
the floggings ever inflicted upon a harmless piece of furni- 
ture, that unlucky chair did then and there receive the 
worst. Mr. Boatright called it names ; he dragged it over 
the floor ; he threatened to burn it up ; he shook it vio- 
lently ; he knocked it against the wall ; one of its rounds 
falling out, he beat it most unmercifully with that ; and at 
last, exhausted by the exercise and satisfied with his re- 
venge, he indignantly kicked it out-of-doors, amid the 

screams and shouts of his schoolfellows. 

% 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Far you well ! ” said Allen, solemnly, to the fallen chair. 
They had all gathered up their books and slates, and 
hats and bonnets, and started off for their several homes. 
Those who went the same way with Brinkly listened with 
respectful attention as he talked with Allen on the way. 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


39 


and showed how bitterly he had suffered from the cruelty 
of this man. They had already lost their resentment at 
the dishonor of that monarch’s royalty, and were evidently 
regarding Brinkly with the devotion with which mankind 
always regards rebels who are successful. Each one strove 
to get the nearest him as he walked. One little fellow, 
Abel Kitchens by name, after trying several times to slip 
in by his side, got ahead, and walked backward as he 
looked at Brinkly and listened. He was so far gone under 
the old regime that he felt no relief from what had hap- 
pened. Evidently he had not understood anything at all 
about it. He seemed to be trying to do so, and to make 
out for certain whether that was Brinkly or not. The 
voice of those young republicans, had Brinkly been ambi- 
tious, would have made him dictator of the Goosepond. 
Even Allen felt a consideration for Brinkly which was alto- 
gether new. He had always expected that in time he 
would resist the master, but he did not dream of the chiv- 
alrous spirit of the lad, nor that the resistance when it 
should come would be so vehement and triumphant. He 
had always regarded Brinkly as his inferior ; he was now 
quite satisfied to consider him as nO more than his equal. 
How we all, brave men and cowards, do honor the brave ! 

But Brinkly was not ambitious or vain; he felt no 
triumph in his victory. On the contrary, he was sad. He 
said to Allen that he wished he could have stood it a little 
longer. 

‘‘Name o’ God, Brinkly Glisson, what for ? It is the 
astonishenist thing I ever heerd of, for you to be sorry for 
maulin’ a rascal who beat you like a dog, and that for 
nothin’. What for, I say again ? ” 

“ On mother’s account.” 

Allen stopped — they had gotten to the road that turned 
off to his home. 


40 


DUKESBOROUGII TALES. 


'‘You tell your mother that when she knows as much 
about the villion as I do, she will be proud of you for 
maulin’ him. Look here, Brinkly, I promised him I 
wouldn’t tell on him tell he had collected his schoolin’ ac- 
count and was off. But you tell your mother that if she 
gets hurt with you for thrashin’ him, she will get worse 
hurt with herself when she knows what I do.” 

Saying this, Allen shook hands w*ith him and the others, 
and went off, merrily singing “Jerusalem, my happy 
home.” Soon all the rest had diverged by by-roads to 
their own homes, and Brinkly pursued his way alone. 

It was about twelve o’clock when he reached home. 
The widow’s house was a single log-tenement, with a small 
shed-room behind. A kitchen, a meat-house, a dairy, a crib 
with two stalls in the rear — one for the horse, the other for 
the cow — were the out-buildings. Homely and poor as this 
little homestead was, it wore an air of much neatness and 
comfort. The yard looked clean ; the floors of both man- 
sion and kitchen were clean, and the little dairy looked as 
if it knew it was clean, but that was nothing new or 
strange. Several large rose-bushes stood on either side of 
the little gate, ranged along the yard-paling. Two rows of 
pinks and narcissus hedged the walk from the gate to the 
door, where, on blocks of oak, rested two boxes of gera- 
nium. 

The widow was in the act of sitting down to her dinner, 
when, hearing the gate open and shut, she advanced to 
the door to see who might be there. Slowly and sadly 
Brinkly advanced to the door. ✓ 

“ Lord have mercy upon my soul and body, Brinkly, 
what is the matter with you ? and what have you been a 
doing, and what made you come from the schoolhouse this 
time o’ day ? ” was the greeting he met. 

“ Don’t be scared, mother ; it isn’t much that’s the mat- 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


41 


ter with me. Let us sit down by the fire here, and I’ll tell 
you all about it.” 

They sat down, and the mother looked upon the son, 
and the son upon the mother. 

'‘I was afraid it would come to it, mother. God 
knows how I have tried to keep from doing what I have 
had to do at last.” 

“ Brinkly, have you been and gone and fought with Mr. 
Meadows ? ” 

'' Yes, mother.” 

And so ruined yourself, and me too.” 

I hope not, mother.” 

Yes, here have I worked and denied myself, day and 
night I have pinched to give you a ejecation, and this is 
the way you pay me for it.” 

Mother, do listen to me before you cry and fret any 
more, and I believe you will think I have not done wrong. 
Please, mother, listen to me,” he entreated, as she con- 
tinued to weep, and rocked herself, in order, as it seemed, 
to give encomagement and keep time to her weeping. She 
wept and rocked. Brinkly turned from her and seemed 
doggedly hopeless. 

Say on what you’re going to say — say on what you’re 
going to say. If you’ve got anything to say, say it.” 

“ I can’t tell you anything while you keep crying so. 
Please don’t cry, mother ; I don’t believe you will blame 
me when I tell you what I have been through.” His 
manner was so humble and beseeching that his mother sat 
still, and, in a less fretful tone, again bade him go on. 

“ Mother, as I said before, God knows that I’ve tried to 
keep from it, and could not. You don’t know how that 
man has treated me.” 

How has he treated you ? ” she inquired, looking at 
her son for the first time since she had been sitting. 


42 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


You were so anxious for me to learn, and I was so 
anxious myself to learn, that I have never told you of 
hardly any of his treatment. Oh, mother, he has beat me 
worse than anybody ought to beat the meanest dog. He 
has called me and you poor, and made fun of us because 
we were poor. He has called me a scoundrel, a beggar, 
a fool. When I told him that you wanted me to quit 
jography, he said you was a fool and had a fool for a son, 
and that he had no doubt that my father was a fool before 
me.” 

The widow dried her face with her handkerchief, settled 
herself in her chair, and said : 

When he said them things he told a — what’s not so ; 
I’ll say it if he is schoolmarster.” And she looked as if 
she were aware that the responsibility of that bold obser- 
vation was large. 

He said,” continued Brinkly, ‘‘ that I should study it, 
and if I didn’t git the lessons, he’d beat me as long as he 
could find a hickory to beat me with. I stood it all be- 
cause it was my only chance to git any schoolin’. But I 
told him then — that is, when he called you a fool, and 
father one, too — that it wasn’t so, and that he ought not to 
say so. Well, yisterday, you know you sent me by Mr. 
Norris’s to pay back the meal we borrowed, and I didn’t 
get to the schoolhouse quite in time. But he wasn’t more 
than a hundred yards ahead of me, and when he saw me 
he hurried just to keep me from being in time. When i 
told him how you had sent me by Mr. Norris’s, he only 
laughed and called me a liar, and then — look at my shoul- 
der, mother.” 

He took off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, and exposed 
his shoulder and back, blackened with bruises. 

Oh, my son, my poor son 1 ” was all she could say. 

She had not known a tenth of the cruelties and insults 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


43 


which Brinkly had borne. He had frequently importuned 
her to let him quit the school. But she supposed that it 
was because of the difficulties of learning his lessons which 
got for him an occasional punishment, and such as was in- 
cident to the life of every schoolboy, bad and good, idle 
and industrious. These thoughts combining with her ar- 
dent desire that he should get a little learning, even at 
the risk of receiving some harsh punishment, made her 
persist in keeping him there. Seeing her anxiety, and to 
avoid making her unhappy, he had concealed from her the 
greater part of the wrongs that he had suffered. But when 
she heard how he had been abused, and saw the stripes 
and bruises upon his body, she wept sorely. 

Well, mother, I stood this too, but last night I couldn’t 
sleep. I thought about all he had said and all he had 
done to me, and I made up my mind to quit him anyhow. 
But this morning, before day, I thought for your sake I 
would try it once more. So I got up and studied my les- 
son here and all the way to the schoolhouse ; and I did 
know it, mother, or I thought I did, for he wouldn’t tell 
me how to pronounce the words, but Allen Thigpen did, 
and I pronounced them just like Allen told me. When I 
told him that, he called me a liar, and afterward I begged 
him not to strike me, but to let me go home. But he 
would strike me, and I fought him.” 

And you done right. Oh, my son, my poor Brinkly ! 
Yes, you are poor, the poor son of a poor widow; but I 
am proud that you had the sperrit to fight when you are 
abused and insulted. If I’d known half of what you have 
had to bear, you should have quit his school long ago ; 
you should, Brinkly, my darling, that you should. But 
how could you expect to fight him and not be beat to 
death ? Why didn’t you run away from him and come to 
me ? He wouldn’t have beat you so where I was.” And 


44 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


she looked as if she felt herself to be quite sufficient for the 
protection of her young. 

“ Mother, I didn't want to run ; I couldn't run from 
such a man as he is. Once I thought I would take my 
hat and books and come away ; but I could not do that 
without running, and I couldiHt run; you wouldn’t want 
me to run, would you, mother ? ” 

The widow looked puzzled. 

‘"No; but he is so much bigger than you, that it 
wouldn’t a looked exactly like you was a coward; and 
then he has hurt you so bad. My poor Brinkly, you don’t 
know how your face is scratched.” 

I hurt him worse than he hurt me, mother.” 

What ? ” 

I hurt him worse than he hurt me ; I got the best 
of it.” 

'' Glory ! ” shouted Mrs. Glisson. 

In fact, I whipped him.” 

“Glory! glory!” 

“ When I had him down — ” 

“ Brinkly, did you have him down, my son? ” 

“Yes, and he begged me to spare him.” 

“ Glory be to — glory be to — but you didn’t do it, did 
you ? ” 

“Yes, mother, as soon as he give up and begged me 'to 
stop, I let him alone.” 

“ I wouldn’t a done it, certin shore ! ” 

“Yes, you would, mother; if you had seen how he was 
hurt, and how bad he looked, you would a spared him, I 
know you would.” 

“ Well, maybe I might ; I suppose it was right, as he 
was a man grown, and schoolmarster to boot. Maybe it 
was best — maybe it was best — maybe I might a done it 
too, but it ain’t quite certin.” 


THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL. 


45 


She had risen from the chair and was pacing the floor. 
This new view of Brinkly’s relation to his tyrant was one 
on which she required time for reflection. She evidently 
felt, however, that as Brinkly had so often been at the bot- 
tom in the combat, now when he had risen to the top 
there was no great harm in staying there a little longer. 

But maybe it was best ; I reckon now he won’t be quite 
so brash with his other scholars.” 

He will never have another chance.” 

What ? ” 

Allen has found out all about him, and where he came 
from, and says he’s a man of bad character. He begged 
Allen not to say anything about it until he got his money 
and could git away. So he is quit, and the school is 
broke up.” 

Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! ” shouted again and sung 
the mother. 

Let her shout and sing. Sing away and shout, thou 
bereaved, at this one little triumph of thine only beloved ! 
Infinite Justice ! pardon her for singing and shouting now, 
when her only child, though poor and an orphan, though 
bruised and tom, seems to her overf^wing eyes grand and 
beautiful, as if he were a royal hero’s son, and the inheritor 
of his crown. 


Among the comments upon the career of Mr. Israel 
Meadows and his overthrow, those of William Williams, 
one of our near neighbors, were the most pronounced. 
The wonder with him was, that as much of a man as Allen 
Thigpen seemed to be had not put the end to such atroci- 
ties, at least those which were inflicted upon the girls. If 
it had been William Williams, he — well, the fact was, he 
would not like to say what he would or would not have 
done, particularly if one or more of them had been any- 


46 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


thing to him. Shortly afterward a school nearer to us 
was opened, and, conscious of the need of something more 
of arithmetic for the sake of an ambitious scheme that for 
some time past had been lying pleasantly upon his breast, 
he decided to attend it for a quarter or two. His experi- 
ence there, and in other scenes, will be related in the suc- 
ceeding tales in this collection. 


HOW MR. BILL WILLIAMS TOOK THE 
RESPONSIBILITY. 


Our honor teacheth us 
That we be bold in every enterprise.” 


CHAPTER I. 

When Josiah Lorriby came into our neighborhood to 
keep a school, I was too young to go to it alone, and so 
William Williams, whose way lay by our house, proffered 
to take charge of me. With much gratitude this was ac- 
cepted, and I was delivered over into his keeping. 

William Williams was so near being a man that the little 
boys used to call him Mr. Bill.’^ I never can forget the 
stout homespun dress-coat which he used to wear, with the 
big pockets opening horizontally across the outer side of 
the skirts. Many a time, when I was fatigued by walking, 
or the road was wet with rains, have I ridden upon his 
back, my hands resting upon his shoulders and my feet 
standing in those capacious pockets. Persons who have 
never tried that way of traveling have no just idea, I will 
venture to say, how sweet it is. Mr. Bill had promised to 
take care of me, and he kept his word. 

About one mile and a half distant stood the schoolhouse. 
It was built of logs and covered with clapboards. It had 
one door, and opposite to that a window. It stood in the 
comer of one of our fields (having formerly been used as 
4 


48 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


a fodder-house), on the brow of a hill, at the foot of which, 
overshadowed by oak trees, was a noble spring of fresh 
water. Our way led us by this spring. Just as we reached 
it, Mr. Bill pointed to the summit and said : 

'^Yonder it is, squire.’^ 

Mr. Bill frequently called me squire, partly from mere 
facetiousness, and partly from his respect for my father, 
who was a judge of the county court. 

We ascended the hill, and Mr. Bill led me into the 
presence of the genius of the place. 

Mr. Josiah Lorriby was a remarkable man. He was be- 
low the middle height, but squarely built. His body was 
good enough, but his other parts were defective. He had 
a low, flat head, with very short brown hair and very long 
ears. His arms were reasonably long, but his hands and 
legs were disproportionately short. He was sitting on a 
split-bottom chair, on one side of the fireplace. Under him, 
with his head peering out between the rounds, sitting on 
his hind legs and standing on his fore legs, was a small 
yellow dog, without tail or ears. This dog’s name was 
Rum. On the side of the hearth, in another split-bottom, 
sat a tall, raw-boned woman with the reddest eyes I have 
ever seen. This was Mrs. Mehetabel, Mr. Lorriby’s 
wife. She had ridden to the school on a small, aged mare, 
perfectly white and totally blind. Her name was Kate. 

When I had surveyed these four personages — this satyr of 
a man, this tailless dog, this red-eyed woman, and this blind 
old mare — a sense of fear and helplessness came over me, 
such as I had never felt before, and have never felt since. 
I looked at Mr. Bill Williams, but he was observing some- 
body else, and did not notice me. My eyes passed from 
one to another of the objects of my dread ; but they be- 
came finally fastened upon the dog. His eyes also had 
wandered, but only with vague curiosity, around upon all 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


49 


the pupils, until they became fixed upon me. We gazed 
at each other several moments. Though he sat still, and I 
sat still, it seemed to me that we were drawing continually 
nearer to each other. Suddenly I lifted up my voice and 
screamed with all my might. It was so sudden and sharp 
that everybody except the woman started. She indiffer- 
ently pointed to the dog. Her husband arose, came to 
me, and in soothing tones asked what was the matter. 

‘‘ I am scared ! ” I answered, as loud as I could speak. 

Scared of what, my little man? of the dog? ” 

I am scared of all of you.” 

He laughed with good-humor, bade me not be afraid, 
called up Rum, talked to us both, enjoined upon us to be 
friends, and prophesied that we would be in less than no 
time. The little creature became cordial at once, reared 
his fore-feet upon his master, took them down, reared them 
upon me, and, in the absence of a tail to wag, twisted his 
hinder parts in violent assurance that if I should say the 
word w^e were friends already. Such kindness, and so un- 
expected, dissolved my apprehensions. I was in a condition 
to accept terms far less liberal. Everybody laughed, and 
Rum, who could do nothing better in that line, ran about 
and barked as joyously as any dog with a tail could have 
done. In the afternoon, when school was dismissed, I 
invited him to go home with me ; but he, waiting as I sup- 
pose for a more intimate acquaintance, declined. . 


CHAPTER II. 

It was delightful to consider how auspicious a beginning 
I had made. Other little boys profited by it. Mr. Lor- 
riby had no desire to lose any of his scholars, and we 


50 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


all were disposed to take as much advantage as possible 
of his apprehension, however unfounded, that on account 
of our excessive timidity our parents might remove us from 
the school. We knew that we were to lose nothing by be- 
ing on friendly terms with Rum. The dread of the teach- 
er’s wife soon passed away. She had but little to say and 
less to do. Nobody had any notion of any reason that she 
had for coming to the school. At first she occasionally 
heard a spelling-class recite. After a little time she began 
to come much less often, and in a few weeks her visits 
had decreased to one in several days. Mrs. Lorriby seemed 
a very proud woman, for she not only had little to say to 
anybody, but, although she resided only a mile and a half 
from the schoolhouse, she never walked, but invariably 
rode old Kate. These were small things, yet we noticed 
them. 

Mr. Lorriby was not of the sort of schoolmasters whom 
men used to denominate by the title of knock down and 
drag out. He was not such a man as Israel Meadows. 
But, although he was good-hearted enough, he was politic. 
Being a new-comer, he determined to manage his business 
with due regard to the tastes, the wishes, and the prejudices 
of the community in which he labored. He preferred a 
mild reign ; but it was said he could easily accommodate 
himself to those who required a vigorous policy. He soon 
learned that the latter was the favorite here. People soon 
complained that there was little or no whipping. Some, » 
who had read the fable of the frogs who desired a sovereign, 
were heard to declare that Josiah Lorriby seemed no better 
than Old King Log.” One patron spoke of taking his 
children home, putting the boy at the plow and the girl at 
the spinning-wheel. 

Parents in those days loved their children, as well as 
now ; but they had some strange ways of showing their 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


51 

love. The strangest of all was the evident satisfaction 
which the former felt when the latter were whipped at 
school. While they had a notion that education was a 
thing desirable, it was believed that the impartation of it 
needed to be conducted in mysterious ways. The school- 
house of that day was, in a manner, a cave of Trophonius, 
into which urchins of both sexes entered amid certain in- 
comprehensible ceremonies, and were everlastingly subject 
and used to be whirled about, body and soul, in vortices 
of confusion. I might pursue the analogy and say that, 
like the votaries of Trophonius, they were not wont to 
smile until long after this violent rotatory indoctrination ; 
but rather to weep and lament, unless they were brave like 
Apollonius, or big like Allen Thigpen, and so could bully 
the priest to dispense with corporal rotation. According 
to these notions, the principles of books, if expected to 
stick, must be beaten with rods into the back. Through 
this ordeal of ceremonies had the risen generation gone, 
and through the same they honestly believed that the 
present generation ought to go and must go. No exception 
was made in favor of genius. Its back was to be kept as 
sore as stupidity’^s ; for, being yoked with the latter, it must 
take the blows, the oaths, and the imprecations. I can 
account for these things in no other way than by supposing 
that the old set of persons had come out of the old system 
with minds so bewildered as to be ever afterward incapa- 
ble of thinking upon it in a reasonable manner. They had 
been beaten so constantly and so mysteriously at school 
that they seemed to entertain a grateful affection for it 
ever afterward. It was, therefore, with feelings of satis- 
faction, sometimes not unmixed with innocent gayety, that 
they were wont to listen to their children when they com- 
plained of the thrashings they daily received, some of 
which would be wholly unaccountable. Indeed, the latter 


52 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


sort seemed to be considered, of all others, the most salu- 
tary. When the punishment was graduated by the offense, 
it was supporting too great a likeness to the affairs of every- 
day life, and therefore wanting in solemn impressiveness. 
But when a schoolmaster for no accountable reason whipped 
a boy, and so set his mind in a state of bewilderment as to 
what could be the matter, and led him into vague specu- 
lations upon what was to become of him in this world, to 
say nothing of the next — ah! then it was that the experi- 
enced felt a happiness that was gently ecstatic. They re- 
curred in their minds to their own school-time, and they 
concluded that, as these things had not killed them, they 
must have done them good. So some of our good mothers 
in Israel, on occasions of great religious excitement, as they 
bend over a shrieking sinner, smile in serene happiness as 
they fan his throbbing temples, and fondly encourage him 
to shriek on. Thinking of the pit from which they were 
digged, and of the rock upon which they now are standing, 
they shout and sing and fan, and, fanning ever, continue 
to sing and shout. 


CHAPTER III. 

When Mr. Lorriby had sounded the depths of public 
sentiment, he became a new man. One Monday morning 
he announced that he was going to turn over a new leaf, 
and he went straightway to turning it over. Before night 
several boys, from small to medium, had been flogged. 
He had not begun on the girls, except in one instance. 
In that I well remember the surprise I felt at the manner 
in which her case was disposed of. Her name was Susan 
Potter. She was about twelve years old, and well grown. 
When she was called up, inquiry was made by the master 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


53 


if any boy present was willing to take upon himself the 
punishment which must otherwise fall upon her. After a 
moment’s silence, Seaborn Byne, a boy of fourteen, rose 
and presented himself. He was good-tempered and fat, 
and his pants and round jacket fitted him closely. He ad- 
vanced with the air of a man who was going to do what 
was right, with no thought of consequences. Miss Potter 
unconcernedly went to her seat. 

But Seaborn soon evinced that he was dissatisfied with 
a bargain that was so wholly without consideration. I 
believed then, and I believe to this day, that but for his 
being so good a mark he would have received fewer stripes. 
But his round fat body and legs stood so temptingly before 
the rod, and the latter fell upon good flesh so entirely 
through its whole length, that it was really hard to stop. 
He roared with pain so unexpectedly severe, and violently 
rubbed each spot of recent infliction. When it was over, 
he came to his seat and looked at Susan Potter. She 
seemed to feel like laughing. He got no sympathy except 
from a source which he despised ; that was his younger 
brother, Joel. Joel was weeping in secret. 

Shet up your mouth,” whispered Seaborn threateningly, 
and Joel shut up, Joel did. 

Then I distinctly heard Seaborn mutter the following 
words : 

“ Ef I ever takes another for her, or any of ’em, may I 
be dinged, and then dug up and dinged over again.” 

I have no doubt that he kept his oath, for I continued 
to know Seaborn Byne until he was an old man, and I 
never knew a person who persistently held that vicarious 
system of school punishment in deeper disgust. What his 
ideas were about being dinged,” and about that operation 
being repeated, I did not know ; but I supposed it was 
something that, if possible, would better be avoided. 


54 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Such doings as these made a great change in the feelings 
of us little ones. Yet I continued to run the crying 
schedule. It failed at last, and I went under. 

Mr. Lorriby laid it upon me remorselessly. I had never 
dreamed that he would give me such a flogging — I, who 
considered myself, as everybody else considered me, a 
favorite. N ow the charm was gone — the charm of security. 
It made me very sad. I lost my love for the teacher. I 
even grew cold toward Rum, and Rum in his turn grew 
cold toward me. Not that we got into open hostilities. 
For, saving an occasional fretfulness. Rum was a good fel- 
low, and personally I had liked him. But then he was 
from principle a thorough Lorriby, and therefore our inti- 
macy must stop, and did stop. 

In a short time Mr. Lorriby had gone as nearly all round 
the school as it was prudent to go. Every boy but two 
had received his portion, some once, some several times. 
These two were Mr. Bill Williams, and another big boy 
named J eremiah Hobbes. Every girl also had been flogged, 
or had had a boy flogged for her, except Betsy Ann Aery, 
the belle of the school. She was a light-haired, blue-eyed, 
plump, delicious-looking girl, fourteen years old. Now for 
Betsy Ann, as it was known to everybody about the school- 
house, Mr. Bill Williams had a partiality which, though 
not avowed, was decided. He had never courted her in 
set words, but he had observed her from day to day, and 
noticed her ripening into womanhood with constantly in- 
creasing admiration. He was scarcely a match for her 
even if they both had been in condition to marry. He 
knew this very well. But considerations of this sort seldom 
do a young man any good. More often than otherwise they 
make him worse. At least such was their effect upon Mr. 
Bill. The greater the distance between him and Betsy 
Ann, the more he yearned to cross it. He sat in school 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


55 


where he could always see her, and oh, how he eyed her! 
Often have I noticed him leaning the side of his head upon 
his arms, extended on the desk in front of him, and look- 
ing at her with a countenance which, it seemed to me, 
ought to make some impression. Betsy Ann received it 
all as if it were no more than she was entitled to, but 
showed no sign whether she set any value upon the pos- 
session or not. Mr. Bill hoped she did ; the rest of us be- 
lieved she did not. 

Mr. Bill had another ambition, which was, if possible, 
even higher than the winning of Miss Aery. Having almost 
extravagant notions of the greatness of Dukesborough, and 
the distinction of being a resident within it, he had long de- 
sired to go there as a clerk in a store. He had made repeated 
applications to be taken in by Messrs. Bland & Jones, and 
it was in obedience to a hint from these gentlemen that he 
had determined to take a term of finishing off at the school 
of Mr. Lorriby. This project was never out of his mind, 
even in moments of his fondest imaginings about Betsy 
Ann. It would have been not easy to say which he loved 
the best. The clerkship seemed to become nearer and 
nearer after each Saturday’s visit to town, until at last he 
had a distinct offer of the place. The salary was small, 
but he waived that consideration in view of the exaltation 
of the office and the greatness of living in Dukesborough. 
He accepted, to enter upon his duties in four weeks, when 
the quarter session of the school would expire. 

The dignified ways of Mr. Bill after this made consider- 
able impression upon all the school. Even Betsy Ann 
condescended to turn her head oftener in the direction 
where he happened to be, and he was inclined to indulge in 
the hope that the possession of one dear object would draw 
the other along with it. At least he felt that, if he should 
lose the latter, the former would be the highest consolation 


56 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


that he could ask. The news of the distinguished honor 
that had been conferred upon him reached the heads of 
the school early on the Monday following the eventful 
Saturday when the business was done. I say heads, for 
of late Mrs. Mehetable and old Kate came almost every 
day. Mrs. Lorriby received the announcement without 
emotion. Mr. Lorriby, on the other hand, in spite of the 
prospect of losing a scholar, was almost extravagant in his 
congratulations. 

It was a honor to the whole school,’^ he said. I feel 
it myself. Sich it war under all the circumstances. It 
was obleeged to be, and as it war, I feels it myself.” 

Seaborn Byne heard this speech. Immediately after- 
ward he turned to me and whispered the following com- 
ment : , 

'' He be dinged! the desateful old son-of-a-gun! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was the unanimous opinion among Mr. Lorriby’s pu- 
pils that he was grossly inconsistent with himself : that he 
ought to have begun with the rigid policy at first, or have 
held to the mild. Seaborn Byne was not exactly the head, 
but he was certainly the orator, of a revolutionary party. 
Not on his own account; for he had never yet, except as 
the voluntary substitute of Miss Susan Potter, felt upon 
his own body the effects of the change of discipline. 
Nor did he seem to have any apprehensions on that score. 
He even went so far as to say to Mr. Bill Williams, who 
had playfully suggested the bare idea of such a thing, that 
ef old Joe Lorriby raised his old pole on him, he would 
put his hzzard (as Seaborn facetiously called his knife) into 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


57 


his paunch. He always carried a very big knife, with 
which he would frequently stab imaginary Lorribys in the 
persons of saplings and pumpkins, and even the air itself. 
This threat had made his brother Joel extremely unhappy. 
His little heart was bowed down with the never-resting fear 
that Seaborn was destined to commit the crime of murder 
upon the body of Mr. Lorriby. On the other hand. Sea- 
born was constantly vexed by the sight of the scores of 
floggings which Joel received. Poor Joel had somehow in 
the beginning of his studies gotten upon the wrong road, 
and, as nobody ever brought him back to the starting-point, 
he was destined, it seemed, to wander about lost evermore. 
The more floggings he got, the more hopeless and wild 
were his efforts at extrication. It was unfortunate for him 
that his brother took any interest in his condition. Sea- 
born had great contempt for him, yet his brother’s heart 
would not allow itself to feel no concern. That concern 
manifested itself in endeavoring to teach Joel himself out 
of school, and in flogging him by way of preventing Joel’s 
having to submit to that disgrace at the hands of the mas- 
ter. So eager was Seaborn in this brotherly design, and so 
indocile was Joel, that for every flogging which the latter 
received from the master he got from two to three from 
Seaborn. 

However, the inflictions which Seaborn made, strictly 
speaking, could not be called floggings. Joel, among his 
other infirmities, had that of being unable to take care of 
his spelling-books. He had tom to pieces so many that 
his mother had obtained a paddle and pasted on both sides 
of it as many words as could be crowded there. Mrs. 
Byne, who was a woman of decision, had been heard to 
say that she meant to head him at this destructive business, 
and now she believed that she had done it. But this in- 
strument was made to subserve a double purpose with Joel. 


58 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


It was at once the object, and in his brother’s hands the 
stimulus, of his little ambition. Among all these evils, flog- 
gings from Mr. Lorriby and paddlings from Seaborn, and 
the abiding apprehension that the former was destined to 
be murdered by the latter, Joel Byne’s was a case to be 
pitied. 

'' It ar a disgrace,” said Mr. Bill to me one morning as 
we were going to school, ‘'and I wish Mr. Larrabee 
knowed it. Between him and Sebe, that little innocent 
individiel is bent on bein’ useded up bodaciously. 
Whippin’s from Mr. Larrabee and paddlin’s from Sebe! 
That ar the ontimeliest paddle that ever / seen. He have 
to try to lam his paddle, and when he can’t lam it, Sebe 
he take his paddle, fling down Joel, and paddle him with 
his paddle. In all my experence, I has not seed jest sich 
a case.” 

The road on which the Bynes came to school met ours 
a few rods from the spring. We were now there, and Mr. 
Bill had scarcely finished this speech when we heard behind 
us the screams of a child. 

“ Thar it is agin,” said Mr. Bill. “At it good and soon. 
It do beat everything in this blessed and ontimely world. 
If it don’t, ding me! ” 

We looked behind us. Here came Joel at full speed, 
screaming with all his might, hatless, his paddle in one 
hand and his dinner-bucket, without cover, hanging from 
the other. Twenty yards behind him ran Seaborn, who 
had been delayed by having to stop in order to pick up 
Joel’s hat and the bucket-cover. Just before reaching the 
spring, the fugitive was overtaken and knocked down. 
Seaborn then getting upon him and fastening his arms with 
his own knees, seized the paddle and exclaimed : 

“Now, you rascal! spell that word agin, sir. Ef you 
don’t, I’ll paddle you into a pancake. Spell ‘ Crucifix sir.” 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


59 


Joel attempted to obey. 

‘".S' agin, you little devil! S-i, si! Ding my skin ef you 
sha’n’t larn it, or Til paddle you as long as thar’s poplars 
to make paddles outen.” 

And he turned Joel over and made him ready. 

Look a-here, Sebe!” interposed Mr. Bill; “fun’s fun, 
but too much is too much.” 

Now what these words were preliminary to, there was no 
opportunity of ascertaining; for just then Mr. Josiah Lor- 
riby, who had diverged from his own way in order to drink 
at the spring, presented himself. 

“ What air you about thar, Sebion Byne ? ” 

Seaborn arose, and though he considered his conduct 
not only justifiable, but praiseworthy, he looked a little 
crestfallen. 

“Ah, indeed! You’re the assistant teacher, air you? 
Interfering with my business, and my rights, and 7ny duties, 
and my — hem! Let us all go to the schoolhouse now. 
Mr. Byne will manage business hereafter. I — as for me, 
I ain’t nowhar now. Come, Mr. Byne, let’s go to school.” 

Mr. Lorriby and Seaborn went on, side by side. Mr. 
Bill looked as if he were highly gratified. 

“ Ef he don’t git it now, he never will.” 

Alas for Joel! Delivered from Seaborn, he was yet 
more miserable than before, and he forgot his own griefs 
in his pity for the impending fate of Mr. Lorriby, and his 
apprehension for the ultimate consequence of this day’s 
work to his brother. He pulled me a little behind Mr. Bill, 
and tremblingly whispered : 

“Poor Mr. Lorriby! Do you reckon they’ll hang 
Seaby, Phil ? ” 

“ What for? ” I asked. 

“ For killin’ Mr. Larrabee.” 

I answered that I hoped not. 


6o 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


'' Oh, Phil! Seaby have sich a big knife! An^ he have 
stob more saplin’s! and more punkins! and more water- 
millions! and more mushmillions ! And he have even 
stob our old big yaller cat! And he have call every one 
of ^em Larrabee, And it’s my ’pinion that ef it warn’t 
for my paddle, he would a stob me befo’ now. You see, 
Phil, paddlin’ me sorter cools and swages him down a 
leetle bit, and I always feels some better arfter he’s been 
of a-paddlin’ o’ me, because then I know that he hain’t 
stob me, nor hain’t a gwine to do it that day. Oh, Seaby 
ar a tremenduous boy, and he ar gom' to stob Mr. Larra- 
bee this blessed day, and then get hung.” 

As we neared the house we saw old Kate at the usual 
stand, and we knew that Mrs. Lorriby was at hand. She 
met her husband at the door, and they had some whisper- 
ing together, of which the case of Seaborn was evidently 
the subject. Joel begged me to stay with him outside until 
the horrible thing was over. We stopped and peeped in 
between the logs. We had not to wait long. Mr. Lorriby, 
his mate standing by his side, at once began to lay on, and 
Seaborn to roar. The laying- on and the roaring continued 
until the master was satisfied. When all was over, I looked 
into Joel’s face. It was radiant with smiles. I never have 
seen greater happiness upon the countenance of childhood. 
Happy little fellow! Seaborn would not be hung. That 
illusion was gone. He hugged his paddle to his breast, 
and, with a gait approaching the triumphant, walked into 
the house. 


CHAPTER V. 

Having broken the ice upon Seaborn, Mr. Lorriby went 
into the sport of flogging him whenever he felt like it. 
Seaborn’s revolutionary sentiments grew deeper and stronger 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


6i 

constantly. But he was now, of course, hopeless of ac- 
complishing any results for himself, and he knew that the 
only chance was to enlist Jeremiah Hobbes, or Mr. Bill 
Williams, and make him leader in the enterprise. Very 
soon, however, one of these chances was lost. Hobbes 
received and accepted an offer to become an overseer on a 
plantation, and Seaborn’s hope was now fixed upon Mr. Bill 
alone. That also was destined soon to be lost by the latter’s 
prospective clerkship. Besides, Mr. Bill never having re- 
ceived and being not likely to receive any provocation 
from Mr. Lorriby, the prospect of making anything out of 
him was gloomy enough. In vain Seaborn raised in- 
nuendoes concerning his pluck. In vain he tried other 
expedients, even secretly drawing on Mr. Bill’s slate a pic- 
ture of a very little man flogging a very big boy, and 
writing as well as he could the name of Mr. Lorriby near 
the former and that of Mr. Bill near the latter. Seaborn 
could not disguise himself ; and Mr. Bill, when he saw the 
pictures, informed the artist that if he did not mind what 
he was about he would get a worse beating than ever Joe 
Larrabee gave him. Seaborn had but one hope left, but 
that involved some little delicacy, and could be managed 
only by its own circumstances. It might do, and it 
might not do. If he had been accustomed to asking 
special divine interpositions, he would have prayed that, if 
anything was to be made out of this, it might be before 
Mr. Bill should leave. Sure enough, it did come. Just 
one week before the quarter was out it came. But I must 
premise the narration of this great event with a few words. 

Between Mrs. Lorriby and Miss Betsy Ann Aery the re- 
lations were not very agreeable. Among other things which 
were the cause of this were the unwarrantable liberties 
which Miss Aery sometimes took with Kate, Mrs. Lorriby ’s 
marc. Betsy Ann, in spite of all dangers (not the least of 


62 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


which was that of breaking her own neck), would treat 
herself to an occasional ride whenever circumstances al- 
lowed. One day at play- time, when Mrs. Lorriby was out 
upon one of her walks, Betsy Ann hopped upon the mare, 
and bantered me for a race to the spring and back. I ac- 
cepted. We set out. I beat old Kate on the return, be- 
cause she stumbled and fell. A great laugh was raised, 
but we were detected by Mrs. Lorriby. Passing me, she 
went up to Betsy Ann, and thus spoke : 

Betsy Ann Acree, libities is libities, and horses is 
horses, which is, as I mean to say, mars is mars. I have 
ast you not to ride this mar, and which she was give to me 
by my parrent father, and which she have not been rid, 
no, not by Josiah Lorribee hisself, and which I have said 
I do not desires she shall be sp’ilt in her gaits, and which I 
wants and desires you will not git upon the back of that 
mar nary ’nother time.” 

Betsy Ann had heretofore escaped correction for any of 
her shortcomings, although they were not few. She was 
fond of mischief, and no more afraid of Mr. Lomby than 
Mr. Bill Williams was. Indeed, she considered herself to 
be a woman, and she had been heard to say that a whip- 
ping was something which she would take from nobody. 
Mr. Lorriby smiled at her mischievous tricks, but Mrs. 
Lorriby frowned. These ladies came in time to dislike 
each other more and more. The younger, when in her 
frolics, frequently noticed the elder give her husband a 
look which was expressive of much meaning. Seaborn 
had also noticed this, and the worse Miss Aery grew the 
oftener Mrs. Lorriby came to the school. Seaborn had 
pondered so much that he at last made a profound discov- 
ery. He had come to believe fully, and in this he was 
right, that the purpose of the female Lorriby in coming at 
all was to protect the male. A bright thought ! He 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


63 


communicated it to Miss Aery, and slyly hinted several 
times that he believed she was afraid of Old Red Eye, as 
he denominated the master’s wife. Miss Aery indignantly 
repelled every such insinuation, and became only the 
bolder in what she said and what she did. Seaborn knew 
that the Lorribys were well aware of Mr. Bill’s preference 
for the girl, and he intensely enjoyed her temerity. But it 
was hard to satisfy him that she was not afraid of Old Red 
Eye. If Old Red Eye had not been there, Betsy Ann 
would have done so and so. The reason why she did not 
do so and so, was because Old Red Eye was about. Alas 
for human nature ! — male and female. Betsy Ann went 
on and on, until she was brought to a halt. The occasion 
was thus : 

There was in the school a boy of about my own size, 
and a year or two older, whose name was Martin Granger. 
He was a pitiful-looking creature — whined when he spoke, 
and was frequently in quarrels, not only with the boys, but 
with the girls. He was suspected of playing the part of spy 
and informer to the Lorribys, both of whom treated him 
with more consideration than any other pupil, except Mr. Bill 
Williams. Betsy Ann cordially disliked him, and she hon- 
ored myself by calling me her favorite in the whole school. 

Now Martin and I got ourselves very unexpectedly into 
a fight. I had divided my molasses with him at dinner- 
time for weeks and weeks. A few of the pupils, whose 
parents could afford to have that luxury, were accustomed 
to carry it to school in phials. I usually ate my part after 
boring a hole in my biscuit and then filling it up. I have 
often wished since I have been grown that I could relish 
that preparation as I relished it when a boy. In all my 
observations I have never known a person of any de- 
scription who was as fond of molasses as Martin was. It 
did me good to see him eat it. He never brought any 
5 


64 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


himself, but he used to hint, in his whining way, that the 
time was not distant when his father would have a whole 
kegful, and when he should bring it to school in his 
mother’s big snuff-bottle. Although I was not sanguine of 
the realization of this prospect, yet I had not on that ac- 
count become tired of furnishing him. I only grew weary 
of his presence while at my dinner, and I availed myself of 
a trifling dispute one day to shut down upon him. I not 
only did not invite him to partake of my molasses, but I 
rejected his spontaneous proposition to that effect. He 
had been dividing it with me so long that I believe he 
thought my right to cut him off now was estopped. He 
watched me as I bored my holes and poured in and ate, 
and even wasted the precious fluid. I could not consume 
it all. When I had finished eating, I put water into the 
phial and made what we called ''beverage.” I would 
drink a little, and then shake it and hold it up before me. 
The golden bubbles shone gloriously in the sunlight. I 
had not said a word to Martin during these interesting op- 
erations, nor even looked toward him. But I knew that 
his eyes were upon me and the phial. Just as I swallowed 
the last drop, his full heart could bear no more, and he 
uttered a cry of pain. I turned to him and asked him 
what was the matter. The question seemed to be consid- 
ered as adding insult to injustice. 

" Corn detemally trive your devilish hide,” he answered, 
and gave me the full benefit of his clinched fist upon my 
stomach. He was afterward heard to say that " thar was 
the place whar he wanted to hit fust.” We closed, 
scratched, pulled hair, and otherwise struggled until we 
were separated. Martin went immediately to Mr. Lorriby, 
gave his version of the brawl, and, just as the school was 
to be dismissed for the day, I was called up and flogged 
without inquiry and without explanation. 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


65 


Betsy Ann had seen the fight. When I came to my 
seat, crying bitterly, her indignation could not contain 
itself. 

“ Mr. Larribee,” she said, her cheeks growing redder, 
you have whipped that boy for nothing.” 

With all her pluck she had never gone so far as this. 
Mr. Lorriby turned pale and looked at his wife. Her red 
eyes glistened with fire. He understood it, and said to 
Betsy Ann, in a hesitating tone : 

'‘You had better keep your advice to yourself.” 

“ I did not give you any advice. I just said you 
whipped that boy for nothing, and I said the truth.” 

"Ain’t that advice, madam? ” 

" I am no madam, I thank you, sir ; and if that’s ad- 
vice — ” 

" Shet up your mouth, Betsy Ann Aery.” 

"Yes, SIR,” said Betsy Ann, very loud, and she fastened 
her pretty pouting lips together, elevated her head, and 
seemed amusedly awaiting further orders. 

The female Lorriby here rose, went to her husband, and 
whispered earnestly to him. He hesitated, and then re- 
solved. 

" Come here to me, Betsy Ann Aery.” 

She went up as gayly as if she expected a present. 

" I am going to whip Betsy Ann Aery. Ef any boy 
here wants to take it for her, he can now step forrards.” 

Betsy Ann patted her foot, and looked neither to the 
right nor to the left, nor yet behind her. 

When a substitute was invited to appear, the house was 
still as a graveyard. I rubbed my legs apologetically, and 
looked up at Seaborn, who sat by me. 

"No, sir; if I do may I be dinged, and then dug up 
and — ” I did not listen to the remainder ; and as no one 
else seemed disposed to volunteer, and as the difficulty 


66 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


was brought about upon my own account, and as Betsy 
Ann liked me and I liked Betsy Ann, I made a desperate 
resolution, and rose and presented myself. Betsy Ann ap- 
peared to be disgusted. 

I don’t think I would whip that child any more to- 
day, if I was in your place, especially for other folk’s 
doings.” 

That’s jest as you say.” 

^^Well, I say go back to your seat, Phil.” 

I obeyed, and felt relieved and proud of myself. Mr. 
Lorriby began to straighten his switch. Then I and all 
the other pupils looked at Mr. Bill Williams. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Oh ! what an argument was going on in Mr. Bill’s 
breast. Vain had been all efforts heretofore made to bring 
him in any way into collision with the Lorribys. He had 
even kept himself out of all combinations to get a little 
holiday by an innocent ducking, and useless had been all 
appeals heretofore to his sympathies ; for he was like the 
rest who had been through the ordeal of the schools, and 
had grown to believe that it did more good than harm. If 
it had been anybody but Betsy Ann Aery, he w’ould have 
been unmoved. But it was Betsy Ann, and he had been 
often heard to say that, if she should have to be whipped, 
he should take upon himself the responsibility of seeing 
that that must not be done. And now that contingency 
had come. How was this responsibility to be discharged? 
Mr. Bill wished that the female Lorriby had stayed away 
that day. He did not know exactly why he wished it, but 
he wished it. To add to his other difficulties, Betsy Ann 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


67 


had never given any token of her reciprocation of his re- 
gard ; for, now that the novelty of the future clerkship had 
worn away, she had returned to her old habit of never 
seeming to notice that there was such a person as himself. 
But the idea of a switch falling upon her, whose person 
from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet was so 
precious to him, outweighed every other consideration, 
and he made up his mind to be as good as his word. J ust 
as the male Lorriby (the female by his side) was about to 
raise the switch — 

“ Stop a minute, Mr. Larrabee ! ” he exclaimed, advanc- 
ing in a highly excited manner. 

The teacher lowered his arm and retreated one step, 
looking a little irresolute. His wife advanced a step, and, 
looking straight at Mr. Bill, her robust frame rose at least 
an inch higher. 

Mr. Larrabee ! I — ah — don’t exactly consider myself 
— ah — as a scholar here now ; because — ah — I expect to 
move to Dukesborough in a few days, and keep store 
thar for Mr. Bland & Jones.” 

To his astonishment, this announcement, so impressive 
heretofore, failed of effect now, when, of all times, it was 
desired. Mr. Lorriby, in answer to a sign from his wife, 
had recovered his lost ground, and looked placidly upon 
him, but answered nothing. 

I say,” repeated Mr. Bill distinctly, as if he supposed 
he had not been heard — I say, I expect in a few days 
to move to Dukesborough; to live thar; to keep store 
thar for Mr. Bland & Jones.” 

“ Well, William, I think I have heard that before. I 
want to hear you talk about it some time when it ain’t 
school time, and when we ain’t so busy as we air now at 
the present.” 

^^Well, but—” persisted Mr. Bill. 


68 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


‘'Well, but? ” inquired Mr. Lorriby. 

“ Yes, sir,*^’ answered the former, insistingly. 

“ Well, but what? Is this case got anything to do with 
it? Is she got anything to do with it? ” 

“ In cose it have not,” answered Mr. Bill sadly. 

“ Well, what makes you tell us of it now, at the pres- 
ent? ” What a big word was that us^ then, to Josiah 
Lorriby. 

“ Mr. Larrabee,” urged Bill, in as persuasive accents as 
he could employ ; “ no, sir, Mr. Larrabee, it have not got 
anything to do with it ; but yit — ” 

“Well, yit what, William?” 

“ Well, Mr. Larrabee, I thought as I was a-goin’ to quit 
school soon, and as I was a-goin’ to move to Dukesbor- 
ough — as I was a-goin’ right outen your school intoo 
Dukesborough as it war, to keep store thar, maybe you 
mout, as a favor, do me a favor before I left.” 

“ Well ! may I be dinged, and then dug up and dinged 
over again ! ” This was said in a suppressed whisper by a 
person at my side. “ Beggin’ ! beggin’ ! ding his white- 
livered hide — beg-gin’ ! ” 

“ Why, William,” replied Mr. Lorriby, “ ef it war con- 
venant, and the favor war not too much, it mout be that I 
mout grant it.” 

“ I thought you would, Mr. Larrabee. The favor ain’t 
a big one — leastways, it ain’t a big one to you. It would 
be a mighty — ” But Mr. Bill thought he could hardly 
trust himself to say how big it would be to himself. 

“ Well, what is it, William? ” 

“ Mr. Larrabee ! — sir, Mr. Larrabee, I ast it as a favor 
of you, not to whip Betsy Ann — which is Miss Betsy Ann 
Aery.” 

“ Thar now ! ” groaned Seaborn, bowing his head. 

The male Lorriby looked upon the female. She an- 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


69 

swered his glance by one which implied a conditional af- 
firmative. 

Ef Betsy Ann Aery will behave herself, and keep her 
impudence to herself, I will let her off this time.” 

All eyes turned to Betsy Ann. I never saw her look so 
fine as she raised up her head, tossed her yellow ringlets 
back, and said in a tone increasing in loudness from begin- 
ning to end : 

But Betsy Ann Aery won’t do it.” 

Hello again thar ! ” whispered Seaborn, and raised his 
head. His dying hopes of a big row were revived. This 
was the last opportunity, and he was as eager as if the last 
dollar he ever expected to make had been pledged upon 
the event. His legs wide apart, his hands upon his knees, 
his lips far separate, his teeth firmly closed, he gazed upon 
that scene. 

Lorriby the male was considerably disconcerted, and 
would have compromised ; but Lorriby the female in an 
instant resumed her hostile attitude, and this time her 
great eyes looked like two balls of fire. She concentrated 
their gaze upon Betsy Ann with a ferocity which was ap- 
palling. Betsy Ann tried to meet them, and did for one 
moment ; but in another she found she could not hold out 
longer ; so she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. 
Mr. Bill could endure no more. Both arms fairly flew out 
at full length. 

“ The fact ar,” he cried, that I am goin’ to take the 
responsibility I Conshequenches may be conshequenches, 
but I shall take the responsibility.” His countenance was 
that of a man who had made up his mind. It had come 
at last, and we were happy. 

The female Lorriby turned her eyes from Betsy Ann 
and fixed them steadily on Mr. Bill. She advanced an- 
other step forward, raised her arms and put her hands on 


70 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


her sides. The male placed himself immediately behind 
his mate’s right arm, while Rum, who seemed to under- 
stand what was going on, came up, and, standing on his 
mistress’s left, looked curiously up at Mr. Bill. 

Seaborn Byne noticed this last movement. “Well, ef 
that don’t beat creation ! You in it too, is you ? ” he 
muttered through his teeth. “ Well, never do you mind. 
Ef I don’t fix you and put you whar you’ll never know no 
more but what you’ve got a tail, may I be dinged, and 
then,” etc. 

Seaborn had been counted upon for a more important 
work than the mere neutralizing of Rum’s forces ; still, I 
knew that Mr. Bill wanted and needed no assistance. We 
were all ready, however — that is, I should say, all but Mar- 
tin. He had no griefs, and therefore no desires. 

Such was the height of Mr. Bill’s excitement that he did 
not even seem to notice the hostile demonstrations of these 
numerous and various foes. 

“ Mr. Larrabee,” he said firmly, “ I am goin’ to take the 
responsibility. I ast you as a favor to do me a favor be- 
fore I left. I ain’t much used to askin’ of favors ; but sich 
it war now. It seem as ef that favor cannot be granted. 
Sense I have been here they ain’t been no difficulties be- 
twixt you and me, nor betwixt me and Miss Larrabee; 
and no nothin’ of the sort, not even betwixt me and Rum. 
That dog have sometimes snap at my legs; but I have 
bore it for peace, and wanted no fuss. Sich, therefore, it 
was why I ast the favor as a favor. But it can’t be hoped, 
and so I takes the responsibility. Mr. Larrabee, sir, and 
you, Miss Larrabee, I am goin’ from this school right intoo 
Dukesborough, straight intoo Mr. Bland’s store, to clerk 
than Sich bein’ all the circumstances, I hates to do what 
I tell you I’m a-goin’ to do. But it can’t be hoped, it seem, 
and I am goin’ to do it.” 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


71 

Oh yes, ding your old hides of you ! ” I heard at my 

side. 

“ Mr. Larrabee, and you, Miss Larrabee,” continued the 
speaker, '' I does not desires that Betsy Ann Aery shall be 
whipped. I goes on to say that, as sich and sich the cir- 
cumstances, Betsy Ann Aery ca7i't be whipped whar I am 
ef I can keep it from bein’ done.” 

“You heerd that, didn’t you? ” asked Seaborn, low, but 
cruelly triumphant; and Seaborn looked at Rum, as if 
considering how he should begin the battle with him. 

Mrs. Lorriby seldom spoke. Whenever she did, it was 
to the point. 

“Yes, but, Weelliam Weelliams, you can’t keep it from 
bein’ done.” She straightened herself yet taller, and, rais- 
ing her hands yet higher upon her sides, changed the an- 
gle of elbows from obtuse to acute. 

“Yes, but I kin,” persisted Mr. Bill. “Mr. Larrabee ! 
Mr. Larrabee ! ” 

This gentleman had lowered his head, and was peering 
at Mr. Bill through the triangular opening formed by his 
mate’s side and arm. The reason why Mr. Bill addressed 
him twice was because he had missed him when he threw 
the first address over her shoulder. The last was sent 
through the triangle. 

“ Mr. Larrabee ! I say it kin be done, and I’m goin’ 
to do it. Sir, little as I counted on sich a case, yit still it 
ar so. Let the conshequenches be what they be, both 
now and some futur day. Sir, that whippin’ that you was 
agoin’ to give to Betsy Ann Aery cannot fall upon her 
shoulders, and — and before my face. Instid of sich, sir, 
you may jest — instid of whippin’ of her, sir, you may — 
instid of her, you may give it, sir — notwithstandin’ and 
nevertheless — you may give it to me.” Then he, letting 
fall his arms, took off his coat, laid it on a bench and 


72 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


turned his shoulder to the master with the meekness of one 
who, having been made the involuntary companion of a 
traveler for one mile, had made up his mind to accom- 
pany him twain. 


CHAPTER VII. 

If the pupils had been familiar with the histories of the 
base men of all the ages, they could have found not one 
with whom to compare Mr. Bill Williams. If they had 
known what it was to be a traitor, they might have ad- 
mitted that he was more like this, the most despicable of all 
characters, than any other. But they would have argued 
that he was baser than all other traitors, because he had 
betrayed, not only others, but himself. Mr. Bill Williams, 
the big boy, the future resident of Dukesborough, the ex- 
pectant clerk, the vindicator of outraged girlhood in the 
person of the girl he loved, the pledge-taker of responsibil- 
ities — that he should have taken the pains, just before he 
was going away, to degrade himself by proposing to take 
upon his own shoulders the rod that had never before 
descended but upon the backs and legs of children ! Poor 
Seaborn Byne ! If I ever saw expressed in a human be- 
ing^s countenance disgust, anger, and abject hopelessness, 
I saw them as I turned to look at him. He spoke not 
one word, not even in whispers, but he looked as if he 
could never more place confidence in mortal flesh. 

When Mr. Bill had concluded his ultimatum, the female 
Lorriby’s arms came down, and the male Lorriby’s head 
went up. They sent each other smiles. Both were smart 
enough to be satisfied. The latter was more than satisfied. 

I am proud this day of William Williams. It air so, 
and I can but say I am proud of him. William Williams 


MR. BILL WILLIAMS. 


73 


were now in a position to stand up and shine in his new 
spere of action. If he went to Dukesborough to keep 
store thar, he mout now go sayin’ that as he had been a 
good scholar, so he mout expect to be a good clerk, and 
fit to be trusted, yea, with thousands upon thousands, ef 
sich mout be the case. But as it was so, and as he have 
been to us all as it war, and no difficulties, and no nuthin’ 
of the sort, and he war goin’, and it mout be soon, yea, it 
mout be to-morrow, from this school straight intoo a store, 
I cannot, nor I cannot. No, far be it. This were a skene 
too solemn and too lovely for sich. I cannot, nor I can- 
not. William Williams may now take his seat.” 

He obeyed. I was glad that he did not look at Betsy 
Ann as she turned to go to hers. But she looked at him. 
I noticed her, and, little as I was, I saw also that if he 
ever had had any chance of winning her, it was gone. It 
was now late in the afternoon, and we were dismissed. 
Without saying a word to any one, Mr. Bill took his arith- 
metic and slate (for ciphering, as it was called then, was 
his only study). We knew what it meant, for we felt, as 
well as he, that this was his last day at school. As my 
getting to school depended upon his continuance, 1 did 
not doubt that it was my last also. 

On the way home, but not until separating from all the 
other boys, he showed some disposition to boast. 

“You all little fellows was monstrous badly skeerd this 
evening, squire.” 

“Wasn’t you scared too? ” I asked. 

“Skeerd? I’d like to see the schoolmarster that could 
skeer me. /skeerd of Joe Larrabee? ” 

“ I did not think you were scared of him.” 

“Skeerd of who, then? Miss Larrabee? She mout 
be redder-eyed than what she ar, and then not skeer me. 
Why, look here, squire, how would I look goin’ intoo 


74 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Dukesborough, intoo Mr. Bland & Jones’s store, right from 
bein’ skeerd of Miss Larrabee ; to be runnin’ right intoo 
Mr. Bland & Jones’s store, and Mehetibilly Larrabee right 
arter me, or old Joe nuther? It wur well for him that he 
never struck Betsy Ann Aery.” 

“ But wasn’t you goin’ to take her whippin’ for her? 

Lookee here, squire, I didn’t take it, did I ? ” 

'' No, but you said you was ready to take it.” 

Poor little fellow ! ” he said, compassionately. 

Squire, you are yit young in the ways of this sorrowful 
and ontimely world. Joe Larrabee knows me, and I 
knows Joe Larrabee, and, as the fellar said, that ar suffi- 
cient.” 

We were now at our gate. Mr. Bill took me out of his 
pockets, set me down softly, bade me good-evening, and 
passed on ; and thus ended his pupilage and mine at the 
school of Josiah Lorriby. 


INVESTIGATIONS CONCERNING MR. JONAS 
LIVELY. 


I well believe 

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, 
And so far will I trust thee.*’ — Shakspere. 

Man is but half without woman.” — Bailey, 


CHAPTER I. 

Although Mr. Bill Williams had moved into Dukes- 
borough, this exaltation did not interfere with the cor- 
dial relations established between him and myself at the 
Lorriby school. He used to come out occasionally on 
visits to his mother, and seldom returned without calling at 
our house. This occurred most usually upon the Sundays 
when the monthly meetings were held in the church at 
Dukesborough. On such days he and I usually rode home 
together, I upon my pony and he upon a large brown mare 
which his mother had sent to him in the forenoon. 

Ever since those remote times, I have associated in my 
memory Mr. Bill with that mare, and one or another of her 
many colts. According to the best of my recollection, she 
was for years and years never without a colt. Her normal 
condition seemed to be always to be followed by a colt. 
Sometimes it was a horse-colt and sometimes a mule ; for 
the planters in those times raised at home nearly all their 


76 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


domestic animals. What a lively little fellow this colt always 
was ; and what an anxious parent was old Molly Sparks, 
as Mr. Bill called the dam! How that colt would run 
about and get mixed up with the horses in the grove 
around the church ; and how the old mare would whicker 
all during the service! I knew that whicker among a 
hundred. Mr. Bill used always to tie her to a swinging 
limb ; for her anxiety would sometimes cause her to break 
the frail bridle which usually confined her, and run all 
about the grounds in pursuit of her truant offspring. 
Mr. Bill used also to sit where he could see her in order to 
be ready for all difficulties. I have often been amused to 
notice how he would be annoyed by her cries and pranc- 
ings, and how he would pretend to be listening intently to 
the sermon when his whole attention I knew to be on old 
Molly and the colt. Seldom was there a Sunday that he did 
not have to leave the church in order to catch old Molly 
and tie her up again. This was a catastrophe he was ever 
dreading, because he really disliked to disturb the service ; 
and he had the consideration, when he rose to go, to place 
his handkerchief to his face, that the congregation might 
suppose that his nose was bleeding. 

While we would be riding home, the conduct of that colt, 
if anything, would be worse than at the church. His fond 
parent would exert every effort to keep him by her side, 
but he would get mixed up with the horses more than be- 
fore. Twenty times would he be lost. Sometimes he 
would be at an immense distance behind ; then he would 
pretend, as it seemed, to be anxiously looking for his 
mother, and would run violently against every horse, whether 
under the saddle or in harness. Old Molly would wheel 
around and try to get back, her whickers ever resounding 
far and wide. When the colt would have enough of this 
frolic, or some one of the home-returning horsemen would 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


77 


give him a cut with his riding-switch, he would get out 
upon the side of the road, run at full speed past his dam, 
and get similarly mixed up with the horses in front. If he 
ever got where she was he would appear to be extrava- 
gantly gratified, and would make an immediate and vio- 
lent effort to have himself suckled. Failing in this, he 
would let fly his hind-legs at her, and dash off again at full 
speed in whatever direction his head happened to be 
turned. Mr. Bill would often say that, of all the fools he 
ever saw, old Molly and her colt were the biggest. As for 
my part, the anxiety of the parent seemed to me natural in 
the circumstances ; but I must confess, that in the matter of 
the quality usually called discretion, while the young of most 
animals have little of it usually, I have frequently thought 
that of all others the one who had the least amount was 
the colt. 

I did not intend to speak of such a trifling matter, but 
was led to it unwarily by the association of ideas. Mr. 
Bill often accepted our invitations to dinner upon these 
Sundays, or he would walk over in the afternoon. Al- 
though he liked much the society of my parents, yet he was 
fondest of being with me singly. With all his fondness for 
talking, there was some constraint upon him, especially in 
the presence of my father, for whom he had the profound- 
est respect. So, somehow or other, Mr. Bill and I would 
get away to ourselves, when he could display his full 
powers in that line. This was easily practicable, as never 
or seldom did such a day pass without our having other 
guests to dinner from among those neighbors who resided 
at a greater distance from the village than we did. Our table 
on these Sundays was always extended to two or three times 
its usual length. My parents, though they were religious, 
thought there was no harm in detaining some of these 
neighbors to dinner and during the remainder of the day. 


78 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Mr. Bill had evidently realized his expectations of the 
pleasures and advantages of town life. It seemed to me 
that he was greatly improved by it. He had evidently laid 
aside some of his ancient awkwardness and hesitation of 
manner. He talked more at his ease. Then he gave a 
more careful and fashionable turn to his hair, and, I 
thought, combed and brushed it oftener than he had been 
wont. His trousers, too, were better pulled up, and his 
shirt-collar was now never or seldom without the necessary 
button. I was therefore somewhat surprised to hear my 
father remark more than once that he did not think that 
town life was exactly the best thing for Mr. Bill, and that 
he would not be surprised if he would not have done bet- 
ter to keep at home with his mother. But Mr. Bill grew 
more and more fond of Dukesborough, and he used to re- 
late to me some of the remarkable things that occurred 
there. About every one of the hundred inhabitants of the 
place and those who visited it, he knew everything that 
by any possibility could be ascertained. He used to con- 
tend that it was a merchant’s business to know everybody, 
and especially those who tried to conceal their affairs from 
universal observation. He had not been very long in 
Dukesborough before he could answer almost any question 
you could put to him about any of his fellow-citizens. 

With one exception. 

This was Mr. Jonas Lively. 

He was too hard a case for Mr. Bill. Neither he nor 
any other person, not even Mrs. Hodge, seemed to know 
much about him. The late Mr. Hodge probably knew 
more than anybody else ; but, if he did, he did not tell it, 
and now he was dead and gone, and Mr. Lively was left 
comparatively unknown to the world. 

Where Mr. Lively had come from originally people did 
not know for certain, although he had been heard occa- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


79 


sionally to use expressions which induced the belief that 
he might have been a native of the State of North Car- 
olina. It was ascertained that he had done business for 
some years in Augusta, and some said that he yet owned a 
little property there. This much was certain, that he went 
there or somewhere else once every winter, and, after remain- 
ing about a month, returned, as was supposed, with two new 
vests and pairs of trousers. At the time that I began to take 
an interest in him in sympathy with Mr. Bill, he had been 
residing at . Dukesborough for about three years ; not ex- 
actly at Dukesborough either, but something less than a 
mile outside, where he boarded with the Hodges, occupy- 
ing a small building in one corner of the yard, which they 
called ^'the Office,” and in which, before he came, the 
family used to take their meals. He might have had his 
chamber in the main house where the others stayed, but 
for one thing ; for besides the two main rooms there were 
a couple of low-roofed shed-rooms in front, one of which 
was occupied by Susan Temple, a very poor relation of Mr. 
Hodge. There were no children, and Mr. Lively might 
have had the other shed-room across the piazza, but for 
the fact that it was devoted to another purpose. Mr. 
Hodge — 

But one at a time. Let me stick to Mr. Lively for the 
present, and tell what little was known about him. 

Mr. Lively was about fifty-one or -two years of age. 
Mr. Bill used to insist that he would never see fifty-five 
again, and that he would not be surprised if he was sixty. 
I have no idea but that this was an over-estimate. The 
truth is that, as I have often remarked, young men like 
Mr. Bill are prone to assign too great age to elderly men, 
especially when, like Mr. Lively, they are unmarried. But 
let that go. 

Mr. Lively was quite stout in body, but of moderate- 


8o 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


sized legs. He had a brown complexion, brown hair, and 
black eyebrows. His eyes were a mild green, with some 
tinge of red in the whites. His nose was Roman, or would 
have been if it had been longer ; for just as it began to 
hook and to become Roman it stopped short, as if upon 
reflection it thought it wrong to ape ancient and especially 
foreign manners. He always wore a long black frock-coat, 
either gray or black trousers and vest, and a very stout,- 
low-crowned furred hat. He carried a hickory walking- 
stick with a hooked handle. 

He never seemed to have any regular business. True, 
he was known sometimes to buy a bale of cotton, or it 
might be two or three, and afterward have them hauled 
to Augusta by some neighbor’s wagon, when the latter 
would be carrying his own to market. Then he occasion- 
ally bought a poor horse out of a wagon, and kept it at the 
Hodges’ for a couple of months, and got him fat and sold 
him again at a smart profit. He was a capital doctor of 
horses, and was suspected of being somewhat proud of his 
skill in that line, as he would cheerfully render his services 
when called upon, and always refused any compensation. 
But when he traded, he traded. If he bought, he put 
down squarely into the seller’s hands ; if he sold, the money 
had to be put squarely into his. Such transactions were 
rare, however ; he certainly made but little in that way. 
But then he spent less. Besides five dollars a month for 
board and lodging, he furnishing his own room, if he was 
out any more nobody knew what it was for. 

He was a remarkably silent man. Although he came 
into Dukesborough often, he had but little to say to any- 
body and stayed but a short time. The remainder of the 
day he spent at home, partly in walking about the place 
and partly in reading while sitting in his chamber, or on the 
piazza between the two little shed-rooms in the front part 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


8i 


of the house. He seldom went to church ; yet upon Sun- 
days he read the Bible and other religious books almost 
the livelong day. 

In the lifetime of Mr. Hodge he was supposed to know 
considerable about Mr. Lively. The latter certainly used 
to talk with him with more freedom than with any other 
person. Mrs. Hodge, a tallish, slenderish lady, never was 
able to get much out of Mr. Lively, notwithstanding that 
she was a woman who was remarkably fond of obtain- 
ing as much information as possible about other persons. 
She used to give it as her opinion that there was nothing 
in Mr. Lively, and in his absence she talked and laughed 
freely at his odd ways and looks. But her husband at 
such times would mildly rebuke her. After he died the 
opinion became general that no person was likely to suc- 
ceed him in Mr. Lively’s confidence, and there was a good 
deal of dissatisfaction upon the subject. 

Mr. Bill Williams felt this dissatisfaction to an uncom- 
mon degree. Being now a citizen of Dukesborough, he 
felt himself bound to be thoroughly identified with all its 
interests. Any man that thus kept himself apart from so- 
ciety, and refused to allow everybody to know all about 
himself and his business, was, in his opinion, a suspicious 
character, and ought to be watched. What seemed to 
concern him more than anything else, was a question fre- 
quently mooted as to whether Mr. Lively’s hair was his 
own or a wig. Such a thing as the latter had never been 
seen in the town, and therefore the citizens were not fa- 
miliar with it; but doubts were raised from the peculiar 
way in which Mr. Lively’s hung from his head, and Mr. 
Bill wanted to see them settled — ^not that this, would have 
fully satisfied him, but he would have felt something better. 
He desired to know all about Mr. Lively, it is true ; yet, 
if he had been allowed to investigate him fully, he certainly 


82 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


would have begun with his head. '' The fact of it is/’ he 
maintained, ''that it ain’t right. It ain’t right to the 
Dukesborough people, and it ain’t right to the transhent 
people. Transhent people comes here goin’ through, and 
stops all night at Spouter’s tavern. They asts about the 
place and the people ; and who knows but what some of 
’em mout wish to buy prop’ty and come and settle here? 
In cose, I in ginerly does most o’ the talkin’ to sich folks, 
and lets ’em know about the place and the people. I don’t 
like to be obleeged to tell ’em that we has one suspicious 
character in the neighborhood, and which he is so suspi- 
cipus that he don’t never pull off his hat, and that people 
don’t know whether the very har on his head is hisn or 
not. I tell you it ain’t right. I made up my mind the 
first good chance I git to ast Mr. Lively a few civil ques- 
tions about hisself.” 

It was not very long after this before an opportunity was 
presented to him for this purpose. Mr. Lively walked into 
the store one morning when there was no other person 
there except him, and inquired for some drugs to give to a 
sick horse. Mr. Bill carefully but slowly made up the 
bundle, when the following dialogue took place. 

" I’m monstous glad to see you, Mr. Lively ; you don’t 
come into the store so monstous powerful ofting. I wish 
I could see you here more freckwent. Not as I’m so 
mighty powerful anxious to sell goods, though that’s my 
business, and in course I feels better when trade’s brisk ; 
but I jes’ natchelly would like to see you. You may not 
know it, Mr. Lively, but I don’t expect you’ve got a better 
friend in this here town than what I am.” 

Mr. Bill somehow couldn’t find exactly where the twine 
was ; he looked about for it in several places, especially 
where it was quite unlikely that it should be. Mr. Lively 
was silent. 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


33 


“ I has thought,” continued Mr. Bill, after finding his 
twine, ^^that I would like to talk with you sometimes. The 
people is always a inquirin’ of me where you come from 
and all sich, and what business you used to follow, jes’ like 
they thought you and me was intimate friends — which I 
am as good a friend as you’ve got in the whole town, and 
which I s’pose you’re a friend of mine. I tells ’em you’re 
a monstous fine man in my opinion, and I spose I does 
know you about as well as anybody else about here. But 
yit we hain’t had no long continyed convisation like I 
thought we mout have some time, when it mout be con- 
venant, and we mout talk all about old North Calliner 
whar you come from, and which my father he come from 
thar too, but which he is now dead and goned. Law! 
how he did love to talk about that old country! and how 
he did love the people that come from thar! If my father 
was here, which now he is dead and goned, he wouldn’t let 
you rest wheresomever he mout see you for talkin’ about 
old North Calliner and them old people over thar.” 

Mr. Bill handed the parcel to Mr. Lively with as win- 
ning a look as it was possible for him to bestow. Mr. 
Lively seemed slightly interested. 

And your father w^as from North Carolina? ” 

Certinly,” answered Mr. Bill, with glee ; right from 
Tar River. I’ve heern him and mammy say so nigh and in 
and about a thousand times, I do believe.” And Mr. Bill 
advanced from behind the counter, came up to Mr. Lively, 
and looked kindly and neighborly upon him. 

Do you ever think about going there yourself ? ” in- 
quired the latter. 

Mr. Bill did that very thing over and of ting. From a 
leetle bit of a boy he had thought how he would like to go 
thar and see them old people. If he lived, he would go thar 
some day to that very old place, and see them old people. 


84 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


From the way he spoke, it seemed that his ideas were 
that the North Carolinians all resided in one particular 
locality, and that they were all elderly persons. But this 
was possibly intended as a snare to catch Mr. Lively, by 
paying, in this indirect manner, respect to his advanced 
age. 

Oh ! ’’ exclaimed Mr. Lively, while he stored away the 
parcel in his capacious pocket, you ought to go there, by 
all means. If you should ever go there, you will find as 
good people as you ever saw in your life. They are a 
peaceable people, those North Carolinians, and industrious. 
You hardly ever see a man there that has not got some 
sort of business ; and then, as a general thing, people there 
attend to their own business, and don’t bother themselves 
about other people’s.” 

Mr. Lively then turned and walked slowly to the door. 
As he reached it, he turned again and said : 

Oh yes, Mr. Williams, you ought to go there and see 
that people once before you die ; it would do you good. 
Good-day, Mr. Williams.” 

After Mr. Lively had gotten out of the store and taken 
a few steps, Mr. Bill went to the door, looked at him in 
silence for a moment or two, and then made the following 
soliloquy : 

“ Got no more manners than a hound. I ast him a civil 
question, and see what I got! But never mind. I’ll find 
out somethin’ about you yit. Now, ain’t thar a picter of a 
man! Well you k’yars a walkin’-stick : them legs needs 
all the help they can git in totin’ the balance of you about. 
And jes’ look at that har : I jes’ know it ain’t all hisn. But 
never do you mind.” 

After this, Mr. Bill seemed to regard it as a point of 
honor to find Mr. Lively out. Hitherto he had owed it to 
the public mainly ; now there was a debt due to himself. 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


8S 


He had propounded to that person a civil question, and, 
instead of getting a civil answer, had been as good as 
laughed at. Mr. Lively might go for the present, but he 
should be up with him in time. 

It was, perhaps, fortunate for Mr. Bill’s designs, as well 
as for the purposes of this narrative, that he was slightly 
akin to Mrs. Hodge, whom he occasionally visited. How- 
ever, we have seen that this lady had known heretofore 
about as little of her guest as other people, and that, at 
least in the lifetime of Mr. Hodge, her opinion was that 
there was nothing in him. True, since Mr. Hodge’s death 
she had been more guarded in her expressions. Mrs. 
Hodge probably reflected that now she was a lone woman 
in the world, except Susan Temple, who was next to noth- 
ing, she ought to be particular. Mr. Bill had sounded his 
cousin Malviny (as he called her) heretofore, and, of 
course, could get nothing more than she had to impart. 
He might give up some things, but they were not of the 
kind we are considering. He informed me one day that 
on one subject he had made up his mind to take the re- 
sponsibility. This expression reminded me of our last day 
with the Lorribys, and I hesitated whether the fullest reli- 
ance could be placed upon such a threat. But I said 
nothing. 

‘'That thing,” he continued, “are the circumsance of 
his har: which it is my opinion that it ain’t all hisn: 
which I has never seed a wig, but has heem of ’em ; and 
which it is my opinion that that har is a imposition on the 
public, and also on Cousin Malviny Hodge, and he a-livin’ 
in her very house — leastways in the office. I mout be mis- 
taken ; ef so, I beg his pardon : though he have not got 
the manners of a hound, no, not even to anser a civil 
question. Still, I wouldn’t wish to hiurt a har of his head ; 
no, not even ef it war not all hisn. Yit the public have a 


86 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


right to know, and — I wants to know myself. And I’m 
gittin’ tired of sich foolin’ and bamboozlin’, so to speak ; 
and the fact is, that Mr. Lively have got to ’splain hisself 
on the circumsance o’ that har.” 

The next time I met him, he was delighted with some 
recent and important information. I shall let him speak 
for himself. 


CHAPTER II. 

Mr. Bill came over to our house one Sunday. I knew 
from his looks upon entering that he had something to 
communicate. As soon as dinner was over, and he could 
decently do so, he proposed to me a walk. My father was 
much amused at the intimacy between us, and I sometimes 
noted a smile upon his face when we started out together 
upon one of our afternoon strolls. As I was rather small 
for nine, and Mr. Bill rather large for nineteen years old, I 
suppose it was somewhat ludicrous to observe such a cou- 
ple sustaining to each other the relation of equality. Mr. 
Bill treated me as fully his equal, and I had come to 
feel as much ease in his society as if he had been of my 
own age. By his residence in town he had acquired some 
sprightliness of manner and conversation which made him 
more interesting to me than formerly. This sprightliness 
was manifested by his forbearing to call me squire persist- 
ently, and varying my name with that ease and freedom 
which town-people learn so soon to employ. This was in- 
teresting to me. 

When we had gotten out of the yard and into the grove, 
Mr. Bill began : 

Oh, my friend, friend of my boyhood’s sunny hour, 
I’ve been nigh and in about a-dyin’ to see you, especially 
sence night afore last — sence I caught old Jonah.” 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


87 


Have you caught him, Mr. Bill? ” 

Caught him! Treed him! Not ezactly treed him 
neither ; but runned him to his holler. I told you I was 
goin’ to do it.*’ 

Seeing that I did not clearly understand, he smiled with 
delight at the felicitous manner in which he had begun his 
narrative. We proceeded a little farther to a place where 
a huge oak tree had protruded its roots from the ground. 
There we sat, and he resumed : 

Yes, sir, I runned him right into his holler. And now, 
squire, I’m goin’ to tell you a big secret; and you are 
mighty nigh the onliest man, Phillmon Pearch, that I’ve 
told it, becase, you see, the circumsances is sich that it 
won’t do to tell too many people nohow ; for Mr. Lively 
he’s a cm-is sort o’ man, I’m afeard. And then you know, 
Philip, you and me has been thick and jes’ like brothers, 
and I’ll tell to you what I wouldn’t tell to no monstous 
powerful chance o’ people nohow. And ef it was to git 
out, people, and specially other people, mout say that I 
didn’t — ah — do ezactly right. And then thar’s Cousin 
Malviny Hodge. Somehow Cousin Malviny she ain’t — 
somehow she ain’t ezactly like she used to be in Daniel 
Hodge’s lifetime. Wimming is right curis things, squire, 
specially arfter thar husbands dies. I never should a 
b’lieved it of her arfter what I’ve heem her say and go on 
about that old feller. But wimming’s wimming ; and they 
ar going to be so always. But that’s neither here nor 
thar : you mustn’t let on that I said a word about him.” 

I felt flattered by this the first confidential communica- 
tion I had ever received, and promised secrecy. 

‘‘ Well, you see. Squire Phil, I ast Mr. Lively as far and 
civil question as one gentleman could ast another gentle- 
man, becase I thought that people had a right and was lia- 
ble to know S07nethi?i* about a man who live in the neigh- 


88 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


borhood, and been a-livin’ thar for the last three year and 
never yit told a human anything about hisself, exceptin’ it 
mout be to Daniel Hodge, which he’s now dead and 
goned, and not even Cousin Malviny don’t know. Least- 
ways didn’t. I don’t know what she mout know now. O 
wimming, wimming! They won’t do, Philip. But let ’em 
go. I ast Mr. Lively a civil question. One day when he 
come in the sto’ I ast him as polite and civil as I knowed 
how about gittin’ a little bit acquainted along with him, 
and which I told him I was friendly, and also all about my 
father cornin’ from North Calliner, thinkin’ maybe, as he 
came from thar too, he mout have a sorter friendly feelin’ 
to me in a likewise way, ef he didn’t keer about bein’ so 
monstous powerful friendly to the people in ginerl, which 
the most of ’em, you know, like your folks, they mostly come 
from old Firginny. You see I sorter slyly baited my hook 
with old North Calliner. But nary bite did I git — no, 
nary nibble. The old fellow look at me mighty interestin’ 
while I war a-goin’ on about the old country, and arfter I 
got through he smiled calm as a summer evenin’ like — so 
to speak — and then I thought we was goin’ to have a 
good time. Instid o’ that, he ast me ef I war ever ex- 
pectin’ to ever go thar, and then said that I ought to go 
thar by all means and see them old people ; and then he 
sorter hinted agin me for astin’ about him bein’ from thar 
becase he was mighty partickler to say that them old peo- 
ple in ginerly was mighty fond o’ tendin’ to their own busi- 
ness and lettin’ t’other people’s alone. Which I don’t have 
to be kicked downstairs befo’ I can take a hint. And so 
I draps the subject ; which in fact I was obleeged to drap 
it, becase no sooner he said it he went right straight imme- 
jantly outen the sto’. But, thinks I to myself, says I, I’ll 
head you yit, Mr. Lively. I’ll find out sumthin’ about you, 
ef it be only whether that head o’ har is yourn or not.” 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


89 


Is it a wig ?” I asked. 

Phillimon,” said Mr. Bill, in a tone intended to be 
considered as remonstrative against all improper haste — 
“ Philiminimon Pearch, when a man is goin’ to tell you a 
interestin’ circumsance about a highly interestin’ character, 
so to speak, you mustn’t ast him about the last part befo’ 
he git thoo the first part. If you does, the first part mout 
not have a far chance to be interestive, and both parts 
mout, so to speak, git mixed up and confused together. 
Did you ever read Alonzer and Melissy, Phil? ” 

I had not. 

Thar it is, you see. Ef you had a read Alonzer and 
Melissy you would not a ast the question you did. In 
that novyul they holds back the best for the last, and ef 
you knowed what it was all goin’ to be, you wouldn’t read 
the balance o’ the book ; and which the man he knowed 
you wouldn’t and that made him hold it back. And which 
I war readin’ that same book one day, and Angeline 
Spouter she told me that nary one of ’em wa’n’t goin’ to 
git killed, and that they got married at the last, and then I 
jest wouldn’t read the book no longer.” 

I was sorry that I had asked the question. 

'' No, Philmon, give every part a far chance to be in- 
terestin’. I give Jonas Lively a far chance; but the 
de-ficulty war he wouldn’t give me one, and I tuck it. I’m 
goin’ to take up Mr. Lively all over. He’s a book, sir — a 
far book. I’ll come to his har in time.” 

Mr. Bill readjusted himself between the roots of the old 
oak so as to lie in comfort in a position where he could 
look me fully in the face. 

“You see, squire,” he continued, “Cousin Malviny 
Hodge, she is sort o’ kin to me, and we always calls one 
another coiisin. The families has always been friendly and 
claimed kin, But I don’t b’lieve they ever could tell whar 


90 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


it started, but it war on Cousin Malviny’s side, leastways 
John Simmonses, her first husband, who his father he also 
come from North Calliner. I used to go out thar some- 
times and stay all night ; but I hainT done sich a thing 
sence Mr. Lively have been thar. One thing, you know, be- 
case he sleeps in the office, and the onliest other place for a 
man to sleep at thar is the t’other shed-room on the t’other 
side o’ the pe-azer from Susan Temple’s room, and which 
about three year ago they made a kind of a sto’ outen that. 
The very idee of callin’ that a sto’! It makes Mr. Bland 
laugh every time I talk about Cousin Malviny’s sto’! I 
jes’ brings up the subject sometimes jest to see Mr. Bland 
laugh and go on. Mr. Bland, you know, Philip, is the 
leadin’ head pardner, and one of the funniest men you 
ever see. Mr. Jones is a monstous clever man, but he is 
not a funny man like Mr. Bland, not nigh.” 

This compliment of Mr. Bill to his employer I consid- 
ered proper enough, although I could have wished that he 
had made fewer remarks which appeared to me to be so far 
outside of the subject. But I knew that he lived in town, 
and I think I had a sort of notion that such persons had 
superior rights as well as superior privileges to mere coun- 
try people. Still I was extremely anxious on the wig ques- 
tion. Mr. Bill had told me strange things about wigs. He 
assured me that they were scalped from dead men’s heads, 
and I did not like to think about them at night. 

But,” continued he, as I was a-sayin’, they ain’t been 
no convenant place for a man to sleep thar sence they had 
the sto’, as they calls it, exceptin’ a feller was to sleep with 
Mr. Lively ; and I should say that would be about as oncom- 
fortable and ontimely sleepin’ as anybody ever want anywhar 
to anybody’s house and stayed all night. And which I’ve 
no idee that Mr. Lively hisself would think it war reason- 
able that anybody mout be expected to sleep with him, 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


91 


nor him to sleep with any other man person. When a old 
bachelor, Philmon, git in the habit o’ sleepin’ by hisself 
for about fifty year, I s’pose he sorter git out o’ the way of 
sleepin’ with varus people, so to speak, and — ah — he ruther 
not sleep with other people, and which — ah — well, the fact 
is, by that time he ain’t fitten too sleep with anybody. I 
tell you, Phlimmon Pearch, befo’ I would sleep with Jonas 
Lively, specially arfter knowin’ him like I do, I’d set up all 
night and nod in a cheer — dinged ef I wouldn’t ! ” 

Mr. Bill could not have looked more serious and resolute 
if he had been expecting on the night of that day an invi- 
tation from Mr. Lively to share his couch. 

Hadn’t been for that,” he went on, I should a been 
thar sooner than I did. But arfter he seem so willin’ and 
anxious for me to go to North Calliner, I thinks I to myself 
I’ll go out to Cousin Malviny’s, and maybe she’ll ast me 
to stay all night, and then she can fix a place for me jes 
for one night ; I sposen she would make a pallet down on 
the flo’ in the hall-room. So Friday evenin’ I got leaf from 
Mr. Jones to go away from the sto’ one night. He sleep 
thar too, you know, and they warn’t no danger in my goin’ 
away for jes one night. So Friday evenin’ I went out, I 
did, to supper, and I sorter hinted around that if they was 
to invite me I mout stay all night, ef providin’ that it war 
entirely convenant ; specially as I wanted a little country 
ar arfter bein’ cooped up so long in town — much as I 
loved town I had not got out o’ all consate for country 
livin’ and country ar, and so forth.” 

He knew all about how to bamboozle Cousin Malviny, 
and country folks generally. 

Cousin Malviny were monstous glad to see me, she 
say ; and I tell you, squire. Cousin Malviny are right jolly 
lately. She look better and younger’n any time I seen her 
sence she married Hodge ten year ago. O wimming, wim- 


92 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ming! But thafs neither here nor thar; you can’t alter 
’em, and let ’em go. Cousin Malviny said her house war 
small but it war stretchy. I laughed, I did, and said I 
would let it stretch itself one time for my accommidation. 
Then Cousin Malviny she laughed, she did, and looked at 
Mr. Lively, and Mr. Lively he come mighty nigh laughin’ 
hisself. As it war, he look like I war monstous welcome 
to stay ef I felt like it. As for Susan Temple, she look 
serious. But that gurl always do look serious somehow. 
I think they sorter puts on that gurl. She do all the work 
about the house, and always look to me like she thought 
she have no friends. 

Well, be it so. I stays ; and we has a little talk, all 
of us together arfter supper ; that is, me and Cousin Mal- 
viny and Mr. Lively. Which I told you he had no man- 
ners. But never mind that now; give every part a far 
chance to be interestin’. We has a talk together, and 
which Mr. Lively are in ginerly a better man to talk to 
than I thought, leastways at his own home. That is, it’s 
Cousin Malviny’s home in cose. Mr. Lively and me talk 
freely. He ast me freely any question he mout please. 
Our convisation war mostly in his astin’ o’ me questions, 
and me a-answerin’ ’em. He seem to look like he thought 
I did not keer about astin’ him any more : but which he 
did see me once lookin’ mighty keen at his head o’ har. 
And what do you sposen he done then? He look at me 
with a kind of a interestin’ smile, and said I ought by all 
means to go some time and see old North Calliner. And 
somehow, squire, to save my life I couldn’t think o’ nothin’ 
to answer back to him. I knowed he had caught me, and 
I tried to quit lookin’ at his old head. The fact of it is, 
ef Mr. Lively say old North Calliner to me many more 
times, I shall git out o’ all consate of the place and all 
them old people over thar. Cousin Malviny she sorter 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


93 


smile. She look up to the old man more’n she used to. 
But you can’t alter ’em, and ’tain’t worth while to try. 
But I, thinks I to myself, old fellow, when I come here I 
owed you one ; now I owe you two. You may go ’long. 

“ Well, arfter awhile, bedtime hit come, and Mr. Lively 
he went on out to the office; which, lo and behold! I 
found that Susan had made down a pallet in Cousin Mal- 
viny’s room, and I war to take Susan’s room. I sorter 
hated that, and didffit have no sich expectation that the 
poor gurl she have to sleep on the flo’ on my account ; 
and I told Cousin Malviny so, and which I could sleep on 
a pallet myself in the hall-room. But Cousin Malviny 
wouldn’t hear to it. Susan didn’t say yea nor nay. They 
puts on that gurl, shore’s you ar born. But that ain’t 
none o’ my business, and so I goes in to the little shed- 
room. And arfter all I war right glad o’ that arrangement, 
because it give me a better chance for what I wanted to 
do, and was determed to do ef I could. I war bent on 
findin’ out, ef I could find out, ef that head o’ har which 
Mr. Lively had on his head war hisn. That’s what I went 
out thar for. I had ast him a civil question, and he had 
give me a oncivil answer, and I war bent on it now more’n 
ever, becase I couldn’t even look at his head without gittin’ 
the same oncivil answer and bein’ told that I ought to go 
and see North Calliner and all them old people thar, which 
I’m beginnin’ not to keer whether I ever sees ’em or not, 
and wish daddy he never come from thar. But I runned 
him to his holler.” 

Mr. Bill then rose from the ground. What he had to 
say now seemed to require to be told in a standing atti- 
tude. 


94 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


CHAPTER III. 

And now, Philip, O Philerimon, my honest friend, and 
companion of the youthful hour, I’m cornin’ to the inter- 
estin’ part ; I’m a-gainin’ on it fast. That man’s a book — 
a far book. If I war goin’ to write one, I should write it 
on Jonas Lively and the awful skenes, so to speak, o’ that 
blessed and on timely night. But in cose you know, Philip- 
mon, I don’t expect to write no book, becase I hain’t the 
edyecation nor the time. But now, lo and behold! it war 
a foggy evenin’ and ’specially at Cousin Malviny’s, whar 
you knows they lives close onto the creek. Well, no sooner 
I got to my room than I slyly slips out onto the pe-azer, 
and out into the yard, and walks quiet and easy as I kin to 
the backside o’ the office, whar thar war a winder. I war 
determed to get thar befo’ the old fellar blowed out his 
candle and got to bed. I had seed befo’ night that a 
little piece war broke out o’ the winder. I didn’t like ez- 
actly to be a-peepin’ in on the old man, and I should a felt 
sorter bad ef he had a caught me. But you see, squire, 
he didn’t leave me no chance. I had ast him a civil 
question; it war his fault and not mine. My skeerts is 
cler.” 

It was pleasant to see my friend thus able to rid himself 
of responsibility in a matter in which it was rather plain 
that blame must attach somewhere. 

So I crope up thar, I did, and found that he had let 
down the curtin. But I tuk a pin and drawed the curtin up 
to the hole in the glass, and then tuk my penknife and slit 
a little hole in the curtin, so I could go one eye on him. 
I couldn’t go but one eye ; but I see a plenty with that — 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


95 


a plenty for one time. In the first place, Phlim, thar ain’t 
a man in the whole town of Dukesborough exceptin’ me 
that know Mr. Lively is a smoker. I don’t b’lieve that 
Cousin Malviny know it. As soon as I got my eye in the 
room I see him onlock his trunk, which it war by the head 
o’ his bed, and take out a little tin box, which it have the 
littlest padlock that ever I see; and then he onlock it 
with a key accordin’, and he tuk out the onliest lookin’ 
pipe! I do b’lieve it war made out o’ crockery. It war 
long, and shaped like a pitcher ; and it had a kiver, and the 
kiver it war yaller and have little holes, it ’pear like, like a 
pepper-box ; and which it have also a crooked stem made 
out o’ somethin’ black ; and ef it wam’t chained to his pipe 
by a little chain, I’m the biggest liar in and about Dukes- 
borough 1 Well, sir, he take out his pipe, and then he 
take outen the trunk another little box, and which it have 
tobarker in it, all cut up and ready for smokin’. Well, sir, he 
fill up that pipe, and which I think it hilt nigh and in and 
about my hand full of tobarker, and then of all the smokes 
which I ever see a mortal smoke, that war the most tre- 
menjus and ontimeliest! It is perfecly certin that that 
man never smoke but that one time in the twenty-four 
hours. I tell you he war hongry for his smoke ; and when 
he smoke, he smoke. And the way he do blow ! I could 
farly hear him whistle as he shoot out the smoke. He 
don’t seem to take no consolation in his smokin’, as fur as 
I could see, becase sich everlastin’ blowin’ made him look 
like he war monstous tired at the last. Sich vilence can’t 
last, and he got through mighty soon. But he have to get 
through quick for another reason ; and which I ar now 
goin’ to tell you what that other reason is — that is, providin’, 
squire, you keers about bearin’ it.” 

Notwithstanding some capital doubts upon the legality 
of the means by which Mr. Bill had obtained his informa- 

7 


96 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


tion, yet I was sufficiently interested to hear further, and I 
so intimated. 

“ Yes, I thought,” Mr. Bill continued with a smile, '' that 
maybe you mout wish to hear some more about his carrins 
on.” But the account thereafter was so circumstantial and 
prolonged that I feel that I should abridge it. Suffice to 
say that among other discoveries he made was the fact that 
Mr. Lively, as suspected, did indeed wear a wig. He con- 
cluded his narrative of his nocturnal adventures thus : 

By this time I war toler’ble cool, and I crope back to 
the house and went to bed. And I thinks I to myself, Mr. 
Lively, you are one of ’em. You ar a book, Mr. Lively — 
a far book. We ar even now, Mr. Lively ; and which I laid 
thar a long time a-meditatin’ on this interestin’ and ontimely 
case. I ast myself, Ar this the lot o’ them which has no 
wife and gits old in them conditions, and has no har on the 
top o’ thar head? Is it sich in all the circumsances of 
sich a awful and ontimely sitovation? Ef so, fair be it 
from William Williams!” 

Mr. Bill delivered this reflection with becoming serious- 
ness. Indeed, he looked a little sad, but whether in con- 
templation of possible bachelorhood or possible baldness I 
cannot say. 

** The next mornin’ we was all up good and soon. When 
we went to breakfast I felt sorter mean when I look at the 
old man, and a little sort o’ skeerd to boot. But he look 
like he have got a good night’s rest, and I have owed him 
somethin’, becase I have ast him a civil question and got 
a oncivil answer ; and so I thinks I, Mr. Lively, you and 
me’s about even — only I mout have a leetle the advantage. 
When I told ’em all good-bye, I told the old man that 
I’m a-thinkin’ more serous than ever I’ll go to old North 
Calliner one o’ these days and see them old people ; and 
which I tell you he look at me mighty hard. But what 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


97 


Struck me war to see how Cousin Malviny look up to him. 
But wimming’s wimming, Philiminon. You can’t alter 
’em, and it ain’t worth while to try.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mrs. Melvina Hodge being destined for a more dis- 
tinguished part in the Lively Investigations than may 
have been supposed, I should mention a few of her ante- 
cedents. Some years back she was Miss Melvina Perkins, 
or rather Miss Malviny Perkins, as she preferred to be 
called. She had been married first to a Mr. Simmons, 
who, as we have heard Mr. Bill Williams say, was related 
to his family. Five or six years afterward Mr. Simmons 
died. However ardently this gentleman may have been 
beloved in his lifetime, the grief which his departure pro- 
duced did not seem to be incurable. It yielded to Time, 
the comforter, and in about another year her name was 
again changed, and she became Mrs. Malviny Hodge. 

Persons familiar with her history used to remark upon 
the different appearances which this lady exhibited accord- 
ing as she was or was not in the married estate. As Miss 
Perkins and as the widow Simmons, she was neat in her 
person and cheerful in her spirits to a degree that might be 
called quite gay ; whereas, in the married relation she was 
often spoken of as negligent both in her dress and her 
housekeeping, and was generally regarded as being hard 
to please, especially by him whose business it was and 
whose pleasure it ought to have been to please her the 
most. Mr. Daniel Hodge had frequently noticed her with 
her first husband, and apparently had not seen very much 
to admire. The truth was, he had rather pitied Simmons, 


98 


DUKESBOROUGII TALES. 


or thought he had. But when, about three or four months 
after the latter’s death, he happened to meet his widow, 
he noted such remarkable changes that he concluded he 
must have grossly misjudged her. A nearer acquaintance, 
in which she grew more and more affable, sprightly and 
generally taking in her ways, tended to raise a suspicion in 
his mind that, so far as his previous judgment of her was 
concerned, it was about as good as if during all that time 
he had been a fool. Mrs. Malviny Simmons had a way 
of arranging a white cape around her neck and shoulders, 
which, with her black frock, had a fine effect upon Mr. 
Hodge. This is a great art. I have noticed it all my 
life ; and, old man as I am, even now I sometimes feel that 
I am not insensible to the charm of such a contrast in 
dressing among women, who, having been in great affliction 
for losses, have grown to indulge some desire to repair them 
in ways that are innocent. 

This new appreciation of Mrs. Simmons increased with a 
rapidity that astonished Mr. Hodge ; the more because he 
had frequently said that, if he ever should marry, it certainly 
would not be to a widow. But we all know what such talk 
as that amounts to. In the case of Mr. Hodge, it was not 
long before he began to consider with himself whether the 
best thing he could do for himself might not be to hint his 
admiration of that white cape and black frock in such a 
way as might lead to other conversation after awhile ; for 
he had a house of his own, a hundred acres of land, and 
three or four negroes ; and he was about thirty years old. 
I say he began to consider ; he had not fully made up his 
mind. True, he needed a housekeeper. But he remem- 
bered that the housekeeping at Simmons’s in his lifetime was 
not as it ought to have been. His memory on this point, 
however, became less and less distinct; and, when he 
thought upon it at all, he was getting into the habit of lay- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


99 


ing all the blame upon Simmons. To be sure, Simmons 
was in his grave, and it wouldn’t look right to talk much 
about his defects, either of character or general domestic 
management. Mr. Hodge was a prudent man about such 
matters generally, and always wished to do as he would be 
done by. But he could but reflect that Simmons, though a 
good-enough fellow in his way, was not only rather a poor 
manager, but not the sort of a man to inspire a woman, 
especially such a one as Mrs. Malviny Simmons now evi- 
dently appeared to be, to exert her full powers, whether in 
housekeeping or anything else. In thinking upon the case, 
Mr. Hodge believed that justice should be done to the liv- 
ing as well as the dead, and that in the married life much 
depended upon the man. This view of the case gradually 
grew to be very satisfactory, and even right sweet to take. 
Not that he would think of doing injustice to Simmons, even 
in his grave ; but facts were facts, and justice was justice, 
and it was now certainly too late to think about altering 
the former in the case of Simmons. So poor Simmons had 
to lie where he was, and be held to responsibilities that 
probably he had not anticipated. 

Mr. Hodge began to consider. He felt that there was 
no harm in merely speculating upon such things. He 
knew himself to be prudent, and generally accurate in his 
judgments. But it was his boast, and always had been, 
that whenever he was convinced that he was wrong he 
would give it up like a man. This had actually occurred ; 
not very often, it is true, but sometimes; and he had given 
it up in such a way as to confirm him more and more in 
the assurance that he was a person who, though little liable 
to delusion, was remarkably free from prejudice and obsti- 
nacy. Probably the most notable instance of such freedom 
that his life had hitherto afforded was the readiness with 
which he gave up the erroneous opinions he had previously 


lOO 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


formed of Mrs. Malviny Simmons, and put the blame of 
what seemed her shortcomings where it belonged. 

He was thus considering the possibility of what he 
might propose to do some* of these days, when Mrs. Sim- 
mons might reasonably be expected, young as she was, to 
be taking other views of life besides those which contem- 
plated merely the past. He knew that there was plenty of 
time for the exercise of mature deliberation. But somehow 
it happened that he began to meet the lady much more fre- 
quently than heretofore. Mr. Simmons having left his wife 
in very limited circumstances, she resided alternately with 
one and another of her own and his relations. These 
people, though kind, yet seemed all to be more than willing 
that Mr. Hodge should have the benefit of any amount of 
her society. The consequence was that, having such op- 
portunities, he was enabled the sooner to bring all his 
thoughts to a head ; not that he contemplated immediate 
action, but was becoming more and more fond of musing 
upon possibilities. But one day he had looked upon the 
white cape and the black frock until he was led to express 
himself in terms that implied admiration. It was intended 
merely as a hint of what might come some of these days. 
One word brought on another. It would be impossible to 
describe how Mrs. Malviny Simmons looked and how she 
talked. Mr. Hodge was not a man of many words, and it 
gratified him when she assisted and accelerated his thoughts, 
and even almost put into his mouth the very words which, 
though not intending such a thing just then, he had been 
considering that he might employ some of these days. 
Things went on with such rapidity that, before Mr. Hodge 
knew what he was about, he had the cape in his arms, and 
was assured that it and the person it belonged to were 
his now and forever, yea, if it might be for a thousand 
year.” 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


loi 


Surely, thought Mr. Hodge, no man since the days of 
Adam in the garden had ever made so tremendous an im- 
pression upon a woman. He had not dreamed that such 
as that was in him. However, we don’t know ourselves, 
he reflected ; and there is a difference in men just as in 
everything else. 

One week from that day Mr. Hodge succeeded to 
Mr. Simmons, and Mrs. Malviny went to keep house for 
Mr. Hodge. There was little in the married life of Mr. 
and Mrs. Hodge that would be very interesting to re- 
late. I before intimated that the lady was most interest- 
ing in those seasons when she was unmarried. The begin- 
ning was splendid, but the splendor was evanescent. Mr. 
Hodge was surprised to notice how soon his wife relapsed 
into the old ways and old looks. He never should have 
expected to see that woman down at the heels. But the 
laying aside the black frock and putting on colors seemed 
to have had a depressing influence upon her tastes. As for 
the housekeeping, Mr. Hodge had to admit to himself that 
plain as things were when old Aunt Dilcy, his negro woman, 
attended to them, they were not as well ordered now. 
Then he found that, in spite of his conscious superiority to 
her former husband, he had apparently no greater success 
in his efforts to please. At this he gradually began to feel 
somewhat disgusted. He never had thought much about 
Simmons in his lifetime ; now his mind would frequently 
revert to him, and he began to suspect that Simmons was 
a cleverer man than he had credit for. It seemed strange 
and somewhat pitiful generally that he should have died so 
young. 

But he knew as well as anybody that matters could 
not be altered now, and he determined to do the best 
he could. He worked away at his farm, and in spite of 
difficulties made and laid up a little something every year. 


102 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


No children were born of the marriage; but he did not 
complain. They had been married several years when, 
the parents of Susan Temple having died and left her 
with nothing, the relatives generally thought that Mr. 
Hodge, who was as near akin to her as any, and who had 
no children of his own, ought to give her a home. Susan 
was just grown up, and, though plain, was a very industrious 
girl. Mr. Hodge suggested to his wife that as the business 
of housekeeping seemed rather troublesome they might take 
Susan for that business, giving her board and clothes as 
compensation. At first Mrs. Hodge came out violently 
against it. Such, however, had long been her habit of 
treating all new propositions of her husband. He was, 
therefore, not surprised ; and indeed was not seriously dis- 
appointed, as he was acting mostly for the purpose of sat- 
isfying his conscience regarding his orphaned relative. He 
said nothing more upon the subject then; indeed, he had 
been ever a man of but few words, and since his marriage 
he had grown more so. Words, he found, were not always 
the things to employ when he wanted her to do even neces- 
sary offices. After all his previous disclaimers to that end, 
he was suspected by more persons than one of having some 
obstinacy ; and it seemed to grow with the lapse of time. 
He kept his pocketbook in his pocket, and his own fingers 
opened and shut it. Mrs. Hodge often maintained to his 
face that he was hard-headed as a mule and too stingy to 
live. He appeared to her most obstinate when she would 
labor in vain to lead him into discussions upon the justice 
of her causes of complaint against him generally. One day 
she did a thing which Mr. Hodge had been once as far 
from foreseeing as any man who ever married another’s 
widow. Mr. Simmons, with all his imperfections, was a 
man who would sometimes allow to his wife the satisfaction 
of leading him into a little domestic quarrel, and to make 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 103 

it interesting would give, or try to give, back as good as he 
got, so to speak. 

However, to return to Mrs. Hodge. One day, when 
Mr. Hodge was about finishing his dinner, his wife, who 
had finished hers some time before, having but a poor ap- 
petite on that occasion, was complaining in general terms 
of her own hard lot. He ate away and said nothing. 
Once he did look up toward her as he reached his hand to 
break another piece of bread ; and as he contemplated his 
wife’s head for a moment, he thought to himself if she 
would give it a good combing the probability was that she 
would feel better. But he said nothing. The lady did ex- 
pect from his looks that he was going for one time to join 
in the striving which had hitherto been altogether on one 
side. Finding herself disappointed, she brought forth a 
sigh quite audible, and evidently hinted a more tender re- 
gret for the late Mr. Simmons than she had exhibited even 
in the first period of her affliction for his loss. She did not 
exactly name Mr. Simmons, but she spoke of what a bless- 
ing it was for people to have people to love ’em and be 
good to ’em ; and that some people used to have ’em, but 
they was dead and goned now ; and people didn’t have ’em 
in these days — no, not even to talk to ’em. And then she 
gently declined her head, gave a melancholy sniff with her 
nose, and looked into her plate as if it were a grave and 
she were hopelessly endeavoring to hold conversation with 
its occupant. Mr. Hodge was on his last mouthful. He 
stopped chewing for a moment and looked at his wife ; then 
he gave a swallow, and thus answered : 

“ Oh! you speakin’ about Simmons. Yes, Simmons war 
a right good feller ; pity he died so young. Ef Simmons 
had not a died so young, some people might a been better 
off.” 

And then he rose, put on his hat, and walked to Dukes- 


104 DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 

borough and back. When he returned, Mrs. Hodge seemed 
in better humor than she had been for weeks and weeks. 


CHAPTER V. 

On the night immediately succeeding this little misunder- 
standing, Mr. and Mrs. Hodge happened to meet upon a 
subject on which they agreed. It would be difficult to say 
in whose mind the idea first occurred of having a little bit 
of a store in one of the little shed-rooms. It was so con- 
venient, in the first place. Their house was within only a 
few steps of the road, on the top of the first hill just this 
side of the creek ; and the little shed-rooms were in front, 
with little windows opening toward the road. On the night 
aforesaid Mr. Hodge and his wife seemed disposed to be 
chatty. Mr. Hodge was gratified that the allusions to his 
predecessor had so soothing an effect. They talked awhile 
about their having no children, and both agreed that it 
seemed to be the lot of some families not to have them. 
And then it occurred to them that it was a pity that the 
two little shed-rooms could not be put to some use. True, 
they had been keeping a signboard which promised Enter- 
tainment for man and horse ; but the stand was too near 
Dukesborough. Besides, Mrs. Hodge had sometimes had 
her feelings hurt by occasional side-remarks of what few 
guests they did have, about the height of the charge, which, 
though reasonable enough generally speaking, seemed ex- 
orbitant when compared with the supper, the bed, and the 
breakfast. 

On the night aforesaid, however, it seemed a fortunate 
accident that the conversation gradually drifted about 
Dukesborough, its rapid growth, and the probability that in 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


105 

time it would grow to be an important place. Already 
people were coming to the stores from six or seven miles 
around ; and it was believed that the storekeepers, espe- 
cially Bland & Jones, were making great profits. Threats 
had been made that unless they would fall in their charges 
they might hear of opposition. While talking together 
upon these things, Mr. and Mrs. Hodge seemed almost 
simultaneously to think that it might be well, in all the cir- 
cumstances, to convert one of the little shed-rooms into a 
little store. The more they turned this idea over, the more 
it seemed good, especially to Mrs. Hodge. She was for 
going into it immediately. Mr. Hodge thought he wanted 
a little more time for reflection. He did have a few hun- 
dred dollars which he had accumulated by honest work and 
good economy ; but he was without mercantile experience, 
and people had told him that merchants sometimes break 
like other people. Besides, he should not think it prudent 
to neglect his farm, and that required most of his attention. 
But Mrs. Hodge suggested that she could attend to the 
store her own self. She could do it, she knew she could. 
He could go on and attend to the farm, and spend what 
time he could spare from that in the store. Mrs. Hodge 
reasoned that her husband had sometimes complained that 
she invested too heavily even in the purchase of necessary 
articles ; and here was an opportunity of getting all such 
things at home and not have to pay out one cent for them, 
except, of course, what little was paid out for them in the 
beginning, and that would be lost sight of in the general 
profits of the concern. 

Mr. Hodge reflected. 

What about the housekeeping? 

Mrs. Hodge in her turn reflected. 

Where was Susan Temple? 

There now! If ever one question was well answered by 


Io6 DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 

propounding another, it was in This case. Mr. Hodge ad- 
mitted this to himself. It was a matter he had himself once 
proposed. The truth was, the house ought to be kept by 
somebody ; and Susan, though a plain girl, was known to 
be neat, orderly, and industrious. Mr. Hodge thought to 
himself, that, as his wife’s talent did not seem to be in 
housekeeping, it might not be wrong to let it make a small 
effort in the mercantile line. And so they agreed. 

This was all right. Susan was so thankful for a home 
that she did her best, and any sensible and honest person 
would have been obliged to see and admit that the house- 
keeping improved. Everything was kept clean and nice. 
Mrs. Hodge, however, thought that if she gave Susan too 
much credit for this change it might spoil her. It was the 
way with all such people, she thought. So she took all the 
credit to herself, and would occasionally remind Susan of 
what would have become of her if they had not taken her 
and put clothes upon her back. Susan ought to be very 
thankful, more so than she seemed to be, in fact, that she 
had not been left to the cold charities of an unfeeling world. 
To make things under this head perfectly safe, she some- 
times insisted that Susan ought to be ashamed of herself for 
not doing more than she did, considering what was done 
for her. Susan, doing everything as it was, would seem to 
look about as if to find something else to do. Not being 
able to find it, she would get very much confused, and 
seem to conclude that she must be a very incompetent 
person. 

But the store. Mr. Hodge went all the way to Augusta. 
Mrs. Hodge would have liked to go too ; but it was thought 
not necessary for both to go. So Mr. Hodge went alone, 
and laid in his stock. A hundred dollars well laid out 
would buy something in those times. Such a sum goes a 
precious little way these days. He brought home with him 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


107 


some pieces of calico and skeins of silk, a few hats, a smart 
box of shoes, nails, a barrel of molasses, and one of sugar ; 
some coffee in a keg, two or three jars of candy, mostly 
peppermint ; some papers of cinnamon, a reasonable num- 
ber of red pocket-handkerchiefs, any quantity of hooks-and- 
eyes, buttons, pins, needles, and gimlets ; a good supply of 
tobacco and snuff, and one side-saddle. Mrs. Hodge had 
urged and rather insisted upon the last article. Mr. Hodge 
hesitated, and seemed to think it not a perfectly safe in- 
vestment ; but he yielded. In addition to this stock Susan 
made ginger-cakes and spruce-beer. These sat on a shelf 
outside the window, except in rainy weather. Mr. Bill 
Williams once brought me one of these cakes, and I thought 
it was as good as I ever ate. 

Mr. Hodge, being a man somewhat adroit in the use of 
tools, made his own counter and desk and shelves. It was 
a great time, when the goods arrived. It was after dark, 
but there was no going to bed until those goods were 
opened and set in their places. And oh, how particular 
they were in handling! Susan must positively be more 
partic’lar, and quit bein^ so keerless, because them things 
cost money. Susan got to be so particular that she even 
handled the tobacco-box and the coffee-keg as if they were 
all cut-glass containing most costly liquors. When she took 
the pieces of calico one by one into her hands and put them 
on the shelves, you would have thought every one was a 
very young baby that she was lifting from the cradle and 
laying upon its mother's breast. When the box of shoes 
was opened, Susan declared that they actilly smelt sweet, 
that they smelt the sweetest of anything in that sto’ excep- 
tin’ o’ the cinnamon. Mrs. Hodge’s feelings were too deep 
to allow very many words ; but she let Susan go on. Much 
as Mrs. Hodge admired everything, she was most deeply 
affected by the side-saddle. The seat had a heart quilted 


io8 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


into it of red stuff. This was so becoming that Mrs. Hodge 
declared, and made Susan admit, that it was the loveliest 
picter that ever was loed and beholded. She said that that 
picter wer the picter of her own heart, and which it had 
been on a new side-saddle for she didn’t know how long. 
But still — Mrs. Hodge didn’t say any more about it then. 
She merely kept caressing the heart softly with her hand 
until Mr. Hodge placed it on a small board-horse which he 
had made for the purpose, and set it in a corner. 

When all was finished it was the unanimous opinion that 
nobody could have had any reason to expect that that shed- 
room could have been made to look like it did then. If 
that store wasn’t carefully locked and bolted that night! 
Susan, who lodged in the other shed-room, lay awake for 
hours ; but, as for her part, she owned it was mostly about 
the shoes and the cinnamon. 

There was some talk about the store in the neighborhood 
for awhile. Some were for it and some against it. The 
Dukesborough merchants were all of the latter party. Mr. 
Bland asked, if Hodge wanted to set up in opposition, 
why didn’t he come into town like a man? It didn’t look 
fair to be having a store away out there and be a-farming 
at the same time. But when he heard what the stock con- 
sisted in, he pretended to laugh, and said that it would 
never come to anything. Still, some people said that Mr. 
Bland fell a little in tobacco and shoes. 

A person in going along the road, and looking upon this 
store, might have imagined that, apart from the cakes and 
spruce-beer, it had been established mainly for the purpose 
of supplying country people with such little things as they 
would be likely to forget while in town. Indeed, after the 
novelty had passed away, it gradually relapsed into such a 
state of things. It was seldom that a customer stopped 
while on his way into town. Mrs. Hodge’s hopes and reli- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


109 

ance were mainly on the outward-bound. When any of 
these would call, she was wont to meet them with an ex- 
pression of countenance which seemed to ask, ‘'Well, what 
is it that you have forgotten to-day ? ” Like other mer- 
chants, Mrs. Hodge, who gradually became the principal 
person in the concern, studied the chances and possibilities 
of trade ; and her husband, at her suggestion, laid in his 
stock in the fall principally of such articles as a person 
might be expected to overlook while making purchases of 
other more important things. He added largely to his 
stock of pins, and went very extensively upon combs, but- 
tons, and flax thread. 

The side-saddle seemed hard to get off. But Mrs. 
Hodge at the very start, on learning the cost, had declared 
that it was entirely too cheap ; she asked for the pricing of 
that herself, and she thought she was warranted in putting 
it at a high figiu*e. She had offers for it. The heart in 
the seat had attracted several ladies, and once it was within 
a half-dollar of going. But Mrs. Hodge, so far from fall- 
ing, intimated an intention, upon reflection, of rising, and 
that drove the customer away. 

Upon the whole, things went on right well. Mrs. 
Hodge certainly improved in spirits ; but of course she 
never could attain to that state of contentment which her 
husband could have wished, and which at first he did 
fondly anticipate. In the matter of dressing herself she 
looked up a little, and there was about her person not 
unfrequently the odor of mingled cinnamon and pepper- 
mint. And it must be remarked that the displeasure that 
it seemed inevitable for her to indulge at intervals was now 
divided between Mr. Hodge and Susan Temple, with the 
greater share to the latter. Susan did not reflect nigh as 
often as she ought what it was to her to have a home and 
clothes upon her back. The girl knew she ought to do it. 


I 10 


DUKESBOROUGII TALES. 


and was everlastingly trying to do it, and filled herself with 
reproaches for her own ingratitude. 

In one of his trips to Augusta Mr. Hodge brought back 
with him Mr. Lively. He had made his acquaintance some 
time before, and had mentioned the fact that the gentleman 
had talked about coming to take board with them, and even 
went so far as to propose, in such an event, to pay as much 
as five dollars a month. This sounded well. Mrs. Hodge 
had an idea that the having a boarder might make the 
house come to be regarded more as a public place ; so she 
said that, as for herself, she was willing. Mr. Lively came. 
When he did come, she thought he was certainly the queer- 
est person that she had ever seen. She looked at his hair 
and then at his nose and legs, and then at his hair again, 
from which he never removed his hat, not even at meals. 
But he was a boarder, she knew, and was entitled to privi- 
leges. She tried to pick him ; but Mr. Lively was a man 
of some experience and would not be picked. Being satis- 
fied that it was best for him to know at once that she was 
a person of consideration, she berated Susan the very first 
night of his arrival for her carelessness and general worth- 
lessness. 

Messrs. Hodge and Lively got along together very well. 
The latter, like the former, was a man of few words ; and 
as time lapsed they seemed to have something of a friend- 
ship for each other. On the contrary, Mrs. Hodge had 
less and less regard for her boarder according as he and 
her husband seemed to like each other the more, and she 
was often heard to say that in her opinion there was noth- 
ing in Mr. Lively. Whatever estimate Mr. lively placed 
upon her, he never told to anybody ; but he went along 
and acted as if Mrs. Hodge and whatever might be her 
thoughts about him were not at all in his way. As time 
passed, Mr. Hodge would often sit with Mr. Lively and 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


Ill 


talk with him with some freedom of his business and other 
matters. Small as his business was comparatively, he was 
careful of his papers, and always kept them locked up in 
his desk. 

On one of his return trips from Augusta, Mr. Hodge 
spent a little more time than usual at his desk in look- 
ing over his papers and one thing and another; but when 
he came out he seemed to be very well satisfied. The 
next day he was taken sick. Little was thought of it 
at first ; but in a day or two he took on a fever, which 
looked as if his time was coming. He himself did not seem 
to be aware of the state of the case until it was too late to 
leave any special directions about anything. At the last 
he did rouse himself a little, looked very hard at Mr. Lively, 
and muttered a few unintelligible words about ** my desk,’* 
and Mr. Lively’s being mighty particular,” and such 
things. But at last he had to give it up, and then Mr. 
Hodge carried his succession of Mr. Simmons to extremes. 


CHAPTER VI. 

So now here was Mrs. Malviny a widow for the second 
time. The deceased was mourned becomingly by all the 
household. Even Mr. Lively was seen to brush away a 
tear or two at the funeral ; but Mrs. Hodge and Susan did 
most of the actual crying, and they cried heartily. Both 
felt that Mr. Hodge’s continued absence from that house 
was obliged to make a difference. 

The question now was. What must be done? Mr. 
Lively seemed to think that Mr. Hodge must have left a 
will, so he and Mrs. Hodge in a day or two went together 
and looked carefully over the papers ; and, although Mr. 

8 


I 12 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Lively followed Mr. Hodge's last confused directions, 
nothing could be found. Mrs. Hodge had nothing to do 
but to heir the property ; and, as there were no debts, it 
was considered not worth while to get out letters of admin- 
istration. Seeing that she was obliged to take the respon- 
sibility of all this business, she submitted, and was very 
meek, remarking that now she was nothing but a lone 
woman in the world, the wide, wide world, property was no 
great things in her mind. But she thought she could be 
kind to Susan Temple. Of course, Susan was nothing to 
her, and it was an expense to feed her and put clothes on 
her back ; still, she might stay there on the same terms as 
before. People should never say that she had the heart to 
turn off a poor orphan on the cold charities of the world. 
Susan was very thankful, perfectly overcome with gratitude, 
indeed, and continued to do everything; and, like Alex- 
ander the Great, would almost weep that there was noth- 
ing more to do. As for Mr. Lively, he somehow had got 
used to the place and didn’t feel like going away at his 
time of life to seek a new home. Mrs. Hodge also dis- 
liked the idea of turning away one that had been so good 
a friend of the family; and indeed, with all the business 
upon her hands, it did look like that one who was nobody 
but a poor lone woman in the world should have some 
friend near enough to go to sometimes for advice, instead 
of being everlastingly running to a lawyer, and they 
a-charging all that a poor lone woman could make. Mr. 
Lively seemed gratified, and thus matters settled down ; 
but all seemed to miss poor Mr. Hodge. 

And now many years had elapsed since Mrs. Hodge had 
been a widow before. She reflected upon it, and was 
thankful that she could bear up under this repeated inflic- 
tion as well as she did, and that she was as strong and act- 
ive as any person who was a mere lone woman in the world 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


I13 

could be expected to be. The amount of business now 
upon her hands would require as much strength and activ. 
ity as could be commanded. Her looking-glass had some^ 
how got broken some time since, all but one little piece in 
the comer of the frame. Mrs. Hodge gave what was left 
to Susan, remarking that as for herself she had very little 
use for such things. Some time afterward, however, she 
reflected that even the lonely and desolate should go neatly, 
and that it always did require more pains to dress in black. 
Even Susan admitted this to be true, and she fully justified 
her Aunt Malviny in the purchase of a new looking-glass 
and a new frock. 

Weeks passed, and then some months. Mrs. Hodge's 
strength and activity grew so that she began to feel as if 
they might be as good as ever. Mr. Bill Williams and 
others, including Mr. Lively, had heard her say that, 
although she knew it must be so, yet she did not feel any 
older than she did when she married Mr. Hodge. It was 
plain to see that she was not willing to be considered one 
day older than she really was ; and that if she had to grow 
old she intended to do so by degrees. Her face certainly 
looked somewhat thinner than it did in those former years ; 
but in a short time even it began to participate in the gen- 
eral recovery, and to have a peachiness which occasionally 
extended over the whole jaw. Remarks had been made 
about that peachiness, the various directions it took, and 
the varying amount of surface it overspread at different 
times. She heard of some of these remarks once ; they 
made her very mad, and she said that the color of her 
cheeks was nobody else's business. 

The rest of her was satisfactory. She had always been 
a very good figure of a woman, and even now, from her 
neck down, she was apparently round as a butter-ball. 
And how spry she was in her walk ! I do think that when 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


I14 

she was walking rapidly, at her usual gait, and had to pass 
any unpleasant obstruction, she could lift her skirts as 
adroitly as any lady I ever knew. And then she rode a 
horse remarkably well, for now she had laid aside the old 
side-saddle and took the one with the heart in the seat. 

This restoration of her youth seemed to do away v/ith 
the melancholy in which her married life had been too 
prone to indulge. She even became again gay. I do not 
mean wild ; there was not a particle of what might be 
called wildness about Mrs. Hodge. But apparently she 
had made up her mind not to yield herself up to useless 
regrets for what could not be helped, to do the best she 
could as long as she was in the world, and to stay in it as 
long as she could. When persons come to these conclu- 
sions they can afford to be cheerful, and sometimes even a 
little gay. She had lost one husband. Many a woman 
does the same and then gives up ; and, although some of 
them reconsider and take back, yet others give up for good. 
Mrs. Hodge had put herself right on this point in the be- 
ginning. She refused to give up at Mr. Simmons’s depart- 
ure; and then, when another man who was at least as 
good, and even better, presented himself, she had nothing 
to take back, and we saw how it all ended. People said, 
as they always do, that it was heartless ; but this gave her 
no concern. And, if it had, there was Mr. Hodge to help 
her to bear it. This experience was of value to her in this 
second bereavement. The course she had pursued in that 
first extremity was so judicious and turned out so well, that 
the fact is, she began to ask herself what she might do pro- 
vided another person of the opposite sex should make a 
remark similar to that which Mr. Hodge had made, and 
which had so momentous consequences. 

But now, here was the difference. Men are more slow 
to make remarks of that sort to ladies of forty or there- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


about who have already had two husbands, than to those 
of five-and-twenty who have had but one. Mrs. Hodge 
noticed this, and it made the peachiness of her cheeks in- 
crease at times to such a degree that it extended up to her 
very eyes. Yet the more she thought upon the probability 
that another person might succeed to the position which 
Mr. Simmons first, and Mr. Hodge afterward, had vacated, 
the more she believed that an extraordinary amount of 
happiness might result in such case to all parties. She 
thought to herself that she had experience, and with sensi- 
ble persons that was worth at least as much as youth. 

I have often heard it remarked, and indeed my own ob- 
servation, I rather think, affirms, that when a lady who has 
been married, especially one who has been married more 
than once, is making up her mind to do so again, she makes 
it up with some rapidity. Knowing that she did not have 
as much time as before, she began to cast about, and her 
ears were open to pertinent remarks which any single gen- 
tleman might be disposed to make. But both widowers 
and bachelors were scarce ; and what few there were either 
were young or had their thoughts upon younger ladies, or 
possibly did not understand the nature of Mrs. Hodge’s 
feelings. 

At first she had not thought much about Mr. Lively. 
True, he stayed there and looked somewhat after out-door 
business, and even advised occasionally about the store. 
For Mrs. Hodge still thought it best to keep up the latter, 
though upon a scale somewhat more limited than before ; 
and, in the multitude of the business matters now devolved 
upon her, she could not give her undivided attention as be- 
fore to this single one. Susan Temple, therefore, who had 
been anxious, as we have seen, to find additional work, 
looked after the store, and Mr. Lively gave a helping hand 
sometimes. Useful as he was, he had not been thought of 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


1 16 

at first except as a mere boarder and friend of the family. 
Besides his general want of attractiveness, Mrs. Hodge 
knew too much about him. I am satisfied that a too long 
and intimate acquaintance between two persons of opposite 
sexes is not favorable to marriage connections. You sel- 
dom know a girl to marry her next-door neighbor’s son. 
A notable instance, I admit, was that of Pyramus and 
Thisbe. They did make the effort to marry each other, 
and probably would have succeeded but for a very hasty 
and fatally erroneous conclusion of the gentleman touching 
a matter of fact. But even taking this to be a true history 
and not a mere fable, I have been inclined frequently, 
while contemplating this peculiar case, to maintain that the 
strong attachment of these young persons to each other, 
residing as they did in contiguous houses, was owing mainly 
to the fact that their respective families assiduously kept 
them apart, and thus they were able to court each other 
only through a hole in the dividing wall. But such cases 
are very uncommon, even in extraordinary circumstances. 
My opinion is that, as a general thing, persons who desire 
to marry well, and have no great things to go upon (if I 
may be allowed to use such an expression), do best by 
striking out at some distance from home. 

I repeat that, besides his general want of attractiveness, 
Mrs. Hodge knew too much about Mr. Lively to be capa- 
ble of entertaining a very hasty and violent thought of 
raising him to the succession of the couple of gentlemen 
who had gone before. For two long years and more they 
had lived in the same house, and long before this period 
Mrs. Hodge had contended that she already knew all about 
Mr. Lively that was worth knowing. Except in the mat- 
ter of his hair, it would have been difficult to say in what 
both she and Mr. Lively had failed to find each other out 
in all this time. We never knew much of his opinion re- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


117 

specting her, but we know that hers respecting him fell far 
short of extreme admiration. 

But time was moving on, and, in spite of Mrs. Hodge’s 
own youthful gayety and activity, she had learned to give 
up some of that ardent appreciation which, in her younger 
days, she had set upon mere external appearances. It 
had come to be generally understood that Mr. Lively had 
property somewhere or other to the amount of several 
thousand dollars. He was neither young nor handsome. 
But Mrs. Hodge reasoned with herself. She remembered 
that she had had already two young and rather good-look- 
ing husbands ; and even if she had been younger herself, 
she could not be expected to go on at this rate and marry an 
unlimited number of such men. So, to be plain with herself, 
she thought she ought to be satisfied with what she had 
already enjoyed of these blessings ; and, to be yet plainer, 
she thought she might go further and fare worse. It has 
always been a matter of remark with me what an amount 
of prudence some women can exert under the cover of 
unlimited frivolity. But I have no idea of pursuing this 
thought any further now. 

Such was the state of things at the period when I first 
introduced Mr. Lively to the reader. Mr. Bill Williams 
had noticed, as he thought, that his cousin Malviny was 
beginning to look up to him. 

Nobody knew Mr. Lively’s views, either of Mrs. Hodge 
or of the general subject of marriage. He had never been 
heard to say whether he would or would not marry in cer- 
tain or in any contingencies. But, if he intended ever to 
marry, it was high time he was thinking about making ar- 
rangements. This was all that people had to say about 
it. When Mrs. Hodge began to collect her scattered 
thoughts, they converged upon him with the strength and 
rapidity usual in such cases. She had no doubt that this 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


1 18 

would be an easy conquest. Indeed, her shrewd mind 
had guessed that this was what Mr. Lively had been stay- 
ing there for all this while, since the death of Mr. Hodge. 
But she charged him in her mind with being rather slow to 
take a hint, after having several times pointedly driven 
Susan out of the room, and with her looks invited him to 
tell what she knew must be on his mind. At first he 
seemed slow to notice all this, and other things. A little 
bit of a something nice would be sitting by his plate every 
morning. This was for the most part some small fish, a 
string of which Mrs. Hodge would frequently purchase 
from a negro or poor white boy who had caught them the 
night before from the creek. These would usually just be 
enough for Mr. Lively. Mrs. Hodge and Susan would 
never accept of any, and the former thought that Mr. 
Lively ought not to have misunderstood the glance and 
the smile with which she would decline. Sometimes there 
would be also beside his plate a little sprig of something or 
other, mostly cedar. But he would forget to take it up 
and fix it in his buttonhole. Women do not like for such 
favors and attentions to pass unregarded. Mrs. Hodge 
began to be vexed, and speak sharply to Mr. Lively and 
Susan alternately about her opinions of both. She would 
say to Mr. Lively that in her opinion Susan was the most 
good-for-nothing hussy that anybody was ever troubled 
with ; and she told Susan more than once that Jonas Lively 
was the blindest old fool that ever lived, and that he didn’t 
have sense enough to ask for what everybody could see 
that he wanted. 

Mr. Lively, never or seldom having been the object of 
any woman’s pursuit, was slow to understand Mrs. Hodge. 
The truth was, he had become warmly attached to the 
place, and he was very anxious to stay there and make it 
his home. At first he did not clearly see Mrs. Hodge’s 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. jjg 

plans. But there are some things which even the dullest 
understandings may be forced to take in after awhile. By 
degrees he began to open his eyes, to look around him, 
and to appear to be pleased. The single attachment of 
such a woman as Mrs. Malviny Hodge ought not to be a 
thing that could be rudely cast aside by such a man as 
Jonas Lively. When, therefore, she began Jo press matters 
a little, he showed very plainly that he was a fool. And 
she did begin to press matters. She had even gone to 
expense. She sat down one night and counted up what 
she had spent upon him in strings of fish and other lux- 
uries, and found that it amounted to eight dollars and 
something. Extravagant as this was, she determined to 
go further, especially as her instincts had taught her that 
there were at last some signs of intelligence and reciproca- 
tion. Mr. Lively had lately gone upon his yearly trip to 
Augusta, and had returned earlier than usual with some 
improvement in his dress. This was an excellent sign. 
Besides, he was growing more communicative with his 
hostess, and occasionally had a kind word even for Susan. 
Things began to look well generally, and as if that was one 
undivided family, or ought to be and would be. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The cordial relations in the household became more de- 
cided after a little incident that occurred one morning be- 
fore breakfast. Mrs. Hodge had not yet risen from her 
couch ; she had always contended that too early rising was 
not good for the complexion. Susan, who had other 
things to think about besides complexion, always rose be- 
times and went to her work. On this morning, at about 


120 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


sunrise, she was sweeping the store and readjusting things 
there generally. Susan was an inveterate sweeper; she 
had made a little broom of turkey-quills, and was brush- 
ing out the desk with it. One of the quills, being a 
little sharpened at the end by constant use, had intruded 
itself into a crack and forced out the corner of a paper 
which had been lodged there. She drew the whole out, 
and seeing that it was one of Mr. Lively’s letters, as it was 
addressed to him, at once handed it to that gentleman, 
who happened to be standing by the window outside and 
had just remarked what a fine morning it was. Mr. Lively 
took the letter, wondering how he could have been so care- 
less as to leave it there. He opened it, looked at the be- 
ginning for a moment, and then at the end ; then remark- 
ing that it was all right, and that he was much obliged to 
Susan, he went to his office. At breakfast Mr. Lively said 
that he believed he would ride to the court-house that day, 
as he had not been there in some time, but that he would 
surely return at night. Mrs. Hodge merely remarked that 
she had given orders for a chicken-pie for dinner ; but to- 
morrow would do as well, she supposed. Oh yes, cer- 
tainly ; or Mrs. Hodge and Susan might have it all to 
themselves. Oh no, no ! they could all have it to-morrow. 

That night, when he returned and came to supper, there 
was a sight for the eyes of a man who had ridden twenty 
miles and gone without his dinner, except a couple of bis- 
cuits which Mrs. Hodge had put with her own hands into 
his coat-pocket in the morning. On that supper-table were 
not only fried eggs, but two sorts of fish, perch and homy- 
heads. Mr. Lively had an appetite, and these dishes 
looked and smelt exactly right. Uncle Moses, Aunt 
Dilcy’s husband, had been made to quit his work for the 
afternoon for the express purpose of having those fish for 
supper. Mrs. Hodge looked at them and at Mr. Lively. 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


I2I 


She said nothing, but there was expression in her coun- 
tenance. 

^'Ah, indeed.?” inquired Mr. Lively, as he took his 
seat. 

“Yes, indeed,” answered Mrs. Hodge. 

Even Susan looked gratified ; she had fried them every 
one. In spite of his intense satisfaction, Mr. Lively was a 
little pained that the ladies should compel him to eat more 
than as an honest man he considered his proper share. He 
insisted and insisted, not only that Mrs. Hodge, but that 
Susan, should take some ; and at last he declared that, if 
they didn’t, he would stop eating himself. He maintained 
that people oughtn’t to try to kill a person that liked them 
as well as he did the present company, by trying to make 
him eat himself to death, and that, as for his part, he 
wasn’t going to do it, because he felt more like living on 
in this little world now than he had ever done. Being thus 
pressed, Mrs. Hodge compromised. She agreed that she 
would take an egg and a horny-head, or maybe two homy- 
heads ; but she declared that she wouldn’t tech a pearch : 
they was for Mr. Lively, and him alone. Susan had to 
come in that far also ; Mr. Lively insisted upon it. She 
tried to get off with one very small little bit of a horny- 
head ; but it was no go. Mr. Lively maintained that there 
was enough perch for all, and he made them both come 
squarely up. 

Oh, it was all so nice! Mr. Lively was quite chatty 
for him. His visit to the county town, the ride, and the 
supper had all enlivened him up smartly ; but, after all, he 
didn’t see that the county town had any very great advan- 
tage over Dukesborough. Dukesborough was coming 
along ; there was no doubt about that. As for himself, he 
would rather live where he was living now than at the 
county town, or indeed any other place he knew of ; he 


122 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


hoped to end his days right where he was. It would have 
been too indelicate for Mr. Lively to look at Mrs. Hodge 
after these words, and so he looked at Susan. Both the 
ladies looked down ; but it was all so pleasant. 

By the time supper was over, as it had been delayed for 
Mr. Lively’s return, it was getting to be his bedtime ; but 
it didn’t look right to be hurrying off after such a supper 
as that. Besides, of late he had been in the habit of lin- 
gering in the house a little longer of evenings than formerly 
— no great deal, but a little. On this occasion it might 
have been foreseen that he was not going to rush right 
away from that society. 

Well,” said he, when he and Mrs. Hodge had taken 
their seats before the fireplace, and Susan was clearing 
away the things — ‘^well, they ware fine! I pity them 
that don’t live on any sort of watercourse. Fish air bless- 
ings, certain, even when they air small. Indeed, the little 
ones air about the best, I believe ; because they air as a 
general thing always fried brown, and then a person don’t 
have to be always stopping to pull out the bones. Those 
we had for supper ware fried ex-zactly right.” 

Mrs. Hodge was a woman who liked appreciation even 
in small things. I’m glad you think so, Mr. Lively. I 
told Susan to be very particler about ’em, because I thought 
you loved to have ’em brown.” 

‘Wes,” said Mr. Lively, with some emphasis; “always 
when they air small and you don’t have to stop to pull out 
the bones.” 

“Yes, you may well say hones'' replied Mrs. Hodge — 
“fish-bones in particler. Fish-bones is troublesome, and 
even dangous sometimes. My grandfather had an aunt that 
got one in her throat outen one o’ them big fish they used to 
have in them times, and it come nigh of killin’ of her at the 
first offstart ; and it never did git out that anybody ever 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


123 


heerd of. And she used to have a heap of pains for forty 
years arfter, and she said she knowed it was that fish-bone, 
and that it run up and down all over her ; and even when 
she was on her dyin’ bed with the rheumatism, and I don’t 
know how old she war then, she declared that it was 
nothin’ but that fish-bone that was a-killin’ of her.” 

'"My! my! your grandfather’s aunt!” exclaimed Mr. 
Lively, and he could not have looked more concerned if it 
had been his own grandfather’s aunt, instead of Mrs. 
Hodge’s, who had come to such a tragical end. But he 
reflected, perhaps, that for some time past that relative had 
been relieved of her sufferings, and then he looked toward the 
table where Susan was rapidly clearing away the things. 

“ Be in a hurry there, Susan,” said Mrs. Hodge, in a 
mild but admonitory tone. 

‘‘Yes; fish and such-like’s blessin’s; but yit — ” Mrs. 
Hodge couldn’t quite make it out. 

Susan hurried matters, I tell you. 

“ Oh yes, indeed ! ” suggested Mr. Lively. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hodge admitted; “but still fishes and — 
livin’ on watercourses, and — everything o’ that kind’s not 
the onliest things in this world.” 

“Oh no, indeed!” hastily replied Mr. Lively. “But 
still — I suppose, indeed I think — of course thair must be — 
and — ” But at that moment he seemed too embarrassed 
to think of what else there was in the world. 

“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Hodge, having thus recovered, 
could proceed a little further: “Fishes and such-like’s 
blessin’s, I know ; I don’t deny it. Of cose it is to them 
that loves ’em, and to them I s’pose it’s very well to live 
on watercourses. Yit them and everything else is not all 
to every person.” 

“ Oh no, no! by no means.” He would not wish to be 
so understood. 


124 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


^^Not all/’ continued Mrs. Hodge; ‘^particler that a 
person might wish in a vain and unglorious world. No, 
fair be it to them that has loved and lost, and loved and 
lost again, and might love again once more, and that for- 
ever and eternally ! ” 

Pen cannot describe the touching solemnity with which 
these words were uttered. Mr. Lively was extremely em- 
barrassed. He had not intended to go very far that night ; 
matters were so recent. He looked very much puzzled, 
and seemed to be trying to make out how an innocent re- 
mark about watercourses could have led them away so far 
into dry land. 

“ Susan,” he called out confusedly, and looked around. 
But Susan had cleared off everything and gone to bed. 

Mrs. Hodge waited a moment to see if he intended to 
avail himself of the good opportunity of saying anything 
specially confidential ; but he was too confused to get it 
out. So she thought she would venture a remark about 
the weather that might reassure him. 

It’s right cool these nights, Mr. Lively.” 

This made him almost jump out of his chair. He had 
been remarking only a day before how warm it was for the 
season, and according to his feelings there had been no 
change since that time. He answered as well as he could. 

No, I don’t — yes — it’s right cool — that is, it’s tolerable 
cool. I suppose — that is, I expect it will be quite cool 
after awhile. A — yes — I think a good rain — and a pretty 
strong wind from the northwest now — would — ah, help — 
and ah — ” 

Yes, indeed,” assisted Mrs. Hodge, and it’s about 
time that people war getting ready for winter. Thar isn’t 
anything like people’s bein’ ready to keep theirselves warm 
and comfortable in the cold, cold winter.” 

Mrs. Hodge shrugged her shoulders as if winter was 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


125 

just at the door, and then she hugged herself up nice and 
tight. 

Yes, oh yes,” answered Mr. Lively, somewhat circu- 
larly ; ‘‘ we all don’t know. But still comforts — yes — of 
course — and especially in the winter-time.” 

Mrs. Hodge looked down, her hands played with a 
comer of her pocket-handkerchief, and she thought that 
she blushed. Mr. Lively, concluding possibly that he had 
carried matters far enough for one evening, rose up and 
broke away. When he was gone she said to herself : “ The 
slowest, the very slowest man-person I ever laid eyes on ! ” 

Although matters did not advance with the rapidity that 
might have been expected, yet it was very plain to Mrs. 
Hodge, and even to Susan, that Mr. Lively saw and ap- 
preciated the whole situation. Mrs. Hodge knew that he 
was a steady and rather a slow man, but persistent in his 
purposes, and somewhat peculiar in his ways of compassing 
them. He could neither be driven nor too violently pulled. 
His growing cheerfulness and the new interest he took in 
everything about the premises showed that his expectation 
was to make that his permanent home. He even went so 
far one day as to say that the house needed repairs, and 
that it must have them before very long. Mrs. Hodge and 
Susan looked at each other, and both smiled. Susan, poor 
thing — for of late her aunt had grown to be somewhat 
more kind and considerate of her feelings — seemed to be 
gratified about as much as anybody. Thus it is that a new 
and very strong feeling toward one dear object disposes us 
sometimes to feel kindly toward all. 

It was delightful to see how pleasant and affable Mr. 
Lively could be ; slow as he might be, he was perfectly 
affable and pleasant. Mrs. Hodge would have been 
pleased to see him more ardent ; but she knew that was 
not his way, and she tried to feel satisfied. 


126 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Matters grew more and more interesting every day. 
All parties were perfectly sociable. Improvements were 
constantly going on in Mr. Lively’s dress. A great box 
came for him one day from Augusta, and the next Sunday 
Mr. Lively came out in a new cloth suit. Both Mrs. 
Hodge and Susan declared at breakfast that he looked ten 
years younger ; that pleased him highly. It seemed that 
thoughts upon marriage had suggested to him the notion 
of going back to his youth and living his life over again. 
But how would you suppose Mrs. Hodge looked when, 
after breakfast, he brought in a long paper bundle, laid 
it on the table, and then took out and handed to her one 
of the finest black silk dress-patterns that had ever ap- 
peared in that neighborhood? — and not only so, but but- 
tons, hooks-and-eyes, thread, lining, and binding! Nor had 
that kind-hearted man forgotten Susan, for, he handed her 
at the same time a very nice white muslin pattern and one 
of calico. Oh, my goodness gracious me^ Mr. Lively!” 
exclaimed Mrs. Hodge ; I knew it ; but — but — still I 
— I didn’t — expect it.” Susan was overpowered too, but 
she couldn’t express herself like her Aunt Malviny. But 
she took the pattern, and blushed all the way round to the 
back of her neck. It was her first present. 

And now those frocks had to be made up right away. 
Mr. Lively required that in the tone of a master, and he 
intimated that there were other things in that same box. 
Mr. Bill Williams was not so far wrong when he said that 
man was a book. 

People now began to talk. Already Mr. Bill had hinted 
to several persons how his cousin Malviny appeared to 
look up to Mr. Lively. This started inquiry, and the new 
clothes and youthful looks convinced everybody that it 
was so. Mrs. Hodge began to be joked ; and, without 
saying yea or nay, laughed and went on. Susan was ap- 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


127 


proached; but Susan was a girl, she said, that didn’t 
meddle with other people’s business, and that if people 
wouldn’t ask her any questions they wouldn’t get any lies 
• — a form of denial which in old times was considered 
almost as an affirmative. So here they had it. 

Matters had come to this stand when Mr. Lively deter- 
mined to make a decisive move. 


CHAPTER Vlir. 

It so happened that my parents had made a visit, taking 
me with them, to my father’s sister, who resided about a 
hundred miles distant. We were gone about a couple of 
weeks, and returned on a Saturday night. I wished that 
the next day might have been the one for the monthly 
meeting in Dukesborough, as I was anxious, among other 
reasons, to see Mr. Bill, and inquire about the parties on 
Rocky Creek. The next afternoon I was walking alone 
in the grove, and was surprised and pleased to see him 
coming up the road toward me. 

Why, Philip, my dear friend, you’ve got back, have 
you? I’m so glad to see you. Mammy said you was all 
to git back last night, and I thought I’d jes’ walk over this 
evenin’ like, and see if you had come shore enough. And 
here you are! In cose, you’ve heerd the news? ” 

No ; we got back last night, and have seen no person 
but the negroes. What news?” 

About the old man Jonis. You hain’t heerd the news? 
Goodness gracious ! I’m glad. Come along, squire. 
I’m so glad.” 

He did look glad — even thankful. We went together to 
our tree. 

✓ 


9 


128 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


"'And you hain’t heard it? Goodness gracious! I 
thought it would a been all over Georgy before this. Let’s 
set down here. Philip Pearch, I think I told you that 
Jonis Lively war a book. I won’t be certing ; but I think 
I did.” 

He certainly did. 

Is it all over? ” I asked. 

Mr. Bill smiled at the very idea that I should have ex- 
pected to get it out of him in that style. 

Don’t you forgit what I told you, Philip. Philimini- 
rippip Pearch, let every part have a far chance to be in- 
terestin’ accordin’ to hits circimisances and hits warious 
pro-prowosoes.” 

He fixed himself as comfortably as possible among the 
roots of the old tree, and thus began : 

“ Well, you know, squire, I told you that I seed that 
Cousin Malviny war lookin’ up mightly to-wards the old 
man ; which I sposen I oughtn’t to say the old man now ; 
but let that go. I seed that she war lookin’ up to him, 
and I knowed that she war thinkin’ about of changin’ of 
her conditions. I knowed that she had change ’em twice 
already befo’ ; and wimming, when they git in sich a habit, 
you needn’t try to alter ’em. When Cousin Malviny have 
made up her mind, she take right arfter Mr. Lively with a 
sharp stick, as it were, as the sayin’ is with us town people. 
Mr. Lively, it seem, war at first surprise, and he rather 
hold back. It appear like he war hard to understand 
Cousin Malviny. But the more he hold back, the more 
Cousin Malviny keep movin’ up. Hit were jes’ like one 
feller with two kings, in draffs, a-follerin’ of another feller 
with one king, and him a-retreatin’ to a double comder. 
He see Cousin Malviny keep sprusen up ; but he think he 
know sich things is common with widders, and he have 
no sich idee that she war sprusenin’ up so for him. But 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


129 


byn-bye he begin to sprusen up hisself, and to get new 
clothes ; and he war monstous free and friendly like with 
Cousin Malviny, and begin to talk about what ought to be 
done about fixin’ up the house and things in ginilly ; and 
it seem like he and Cousin Malviny war movin’ up toler’ble 
close: and I hain’t seed Cousin Malviny so spry and 
active sence she war a widder befo’, and that war when I 
wam’t nothin’ but a leetle bit of a boy. 

‘‘Well, things kept a-goin’ on, and everybody see that 
they war obleeged to come to a head, and that soon, be- 
case people knowed they was both old enough to know 
thar own mind ; and both of ’em a-livin’ in the same place, 
everything was so convenant like. Mr. Lively begin to 
spend his money free. He have bought new clothes for 
hisself, and he have bought a fine silk dress for Cousin 
Malviny, and he even went so far as to give a right nice 
muslin and a caliker to Susan. Stick a pin right thar, Pe- 
lomenenon, my friend. Oh, he’s a book! The very day 
you all went away, a man come thar from Augusty and 
fotch a bran new gig, and two fine bedstids, and a bureau 
and cheers. And he never say a word to Cousin Malviny 
till they got thar, and he have all the furnitoor put in the 
office ; and Cousin Malviny war delighted, and didn’t ast 
him anything about it, becase she know he war a man of 
mighty few words, and didn’t do things like t’other people 
nohow, and didn’t keer about people astin him too many 
questions — which / could a told her the same. When all 
this got thar, people know what was a-comin’ ; leastways 
they think they do. As for me, I war lookin’ out every 
day for a invite. 

“ And now, lo and behold ! The next momin’ I war 
woke up by daylight by wheels a-rattlin’ ; and our nigger 
boy, who war makin’ me and Mr. Jones’s fire, he went to 
the door, and he come back and he say that it war Mn 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


130 

Lively in a new gig, and he have a female in thar along 
with him, and which she have on a white dress and a veil, 
but which he know it war Cousin Malviny Hodge, and they 
went a-scootin’ on. Thinks I to myself, and I says to Mr. 
Jones, what’s the reason they can’t git married at home like 
t’other people? And Mr. Jones he say that considerin’ 
they war both toler’ble old people, they was in a monstous 
hurry from the way the wheels was a-rattlin’ ; and which 
they ’minded him of what old Mr. Wiggins said in his 
sarmints about rushin’ along Gallio-like, a-keerin’ for none 
o’ these things. Shore enough, they goes on to Squire 
Whaley’s at Beaver Dam, and thar they git married. 

I have just git up from breakfast at Spouter’s, when, 
lo and behold ! here come that gig a-drivin’ up nigh and in 
and about as fast as it come by the sto’. I know that they 
was in for a frolic that day, and was bent on havin’ of it, 
and I laughed when I see ’em a-comin’. When they got 
to the tavern-door, Mr. Lively he hilt up his horse, and it 
war nice to see how spry the old man hop outen the gig 
and hand out his wife. And she, why she farly bounce 
out, and bounce up and down two or three times arfter she 
lit! I says to myself. Cousin Malviny she think now she 
about sixteen year old. She have on her white veil till 
yit, and clean till she got in the house. 

‘ How do you do, Mr. Williams? ’ says he to me when 
I follered in ; ‘a very fine morning,’ says Mr. Lively. 
Says I, ‘ How do you do, Mr. Lively ; or mout I now say 
Cousin Jonis? A fine mornin’ indeed, I sposen, to you, 
sir, and ’specially for sich pleasant bizness. I wishes you 
much joy, Mr. Lively, and also Cousin Malviny. But,’ 
says I, ‘ I did spect a invite, and I wants to know what 
made you two run away in that kind o’ style ; for I calls 
it nothin’ but runnin’ away, and I can but ast myself who 
is they runnin’ away from,, and who can be runnin’ after 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


131 

’em? Why didn’t you have the frolic at home, Cousin 
Malviny? ’ says I. And then she ansered me. I tell you, 
Philinipinimon, she ansered me ! ” 

Mr. Bill paused, and seemed waiting for me to question 
him further. Why didn’t they marry at home, then? ” I 
inquired. 

Ah, yes ; well mout you ast that question, my friend 
of the sunny hour. When you ast that question yur talkin’ 
sense. Well, I’ll tell you. One reason why they didn’t 
was becase they couldn’t.” 

‘^They couldn’t?” 

Couldn’t. Onpossible. Jest as onpossible as if it had 
been a bresh-heap and it afire.” 

But why not? ” 

Becase Cousin Malviny wouldn’t a been willin’.” This 
was answered almost in a whisper. 

Well, that is funny.” 

Fun to some people and death to the t’others.” 

Why, I should think she would rather marry at home.” 

She^ I think you said, Philip? ” 

‘^Yes. Sher 

Well, Philmon Pearch, will you jes’ be kind and conde- 
scendin’ enough to tell me who it is you’re speakin’ about 
at the present? ” 

“Why, Mrs. Hodge, of course!” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Bill in apparently great surprise. 
“Oh yes; Cousin Malviny. Yes. Well, I sposen Cousin 
Malviny, reasonable speakin’, she mout ruther git married 
at home, providin’ in cose that people has got homes to git 
married at. I should ruther suppose that Cousin Malviny 
mout some ruther git married at home.” 

“ Well, why didn’t she do it then? ” 

“ Do what? ” Mr. Bill seemed to be growing very much 
abstracted. 


132 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Get married,” said I, quite distinctly. 

Git married! Ah yes. Git married. To who, Philip? ” 
‘'To Mr. Lively. What’s the matter with you, Mr. Bill?” 
Mr. Bill slowly elevated his eyes until they looked into 
the zenith, and then he lowered them again. 

“Oh! Mr. Lively! Well, when Mr. Lively, he got 
married — you see, Philip, when Mr. Lively he got married. 
Cousin Malviny, she warfi't thar'^ 

I could have put both my fists into Mr. Bill’s mouth, 
and there still would have been room. i 

“ What! ” I exclaimed. “ Didn’t Mr. Lively marry Mrs. 
Hodge?” 

Mr. Bill rose upon his feet, bent his head and knees for- 
ward, and roared: 

“ Na-ee-ii-o-oh-woHl ” 

“What! Then they didn’t get married after all? ” 
“Yes, they did.” 

“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Bill? Did Mr. Lively 
get married? ” 

“ Certing he did. Ef any man ever got married, Mr. 
Jonis Lively got married that same mornin’.” 

“ Who did he marry, then? ” 

“ Se-oo-woo- woosen ! ” 

“Who?” 

“ See-oo-woo-woosen, Tem-em-pem-pemple. Susan! 
Temple! ” 

“Susan Temple!” 

“ Yes, sir^ it war Susan Temple ; and I didn’t have not 
the slightest consate of sich a thing tell she lift up her veil 
and I see her with my own blessed eyes spread out in all 
her mornin’ glories, so to speak. Didn’t I tell you, Phile- 
rimon Pearch, that that blessed an’ ontimely old feller war 
a book? I’m not so very certing, but I ruther thmk I 
did.” 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


133 


''But what about Mrs. Hodge?’' 

"Ah now,” said Mr. Bill sadly, "now, Philip, you'r astin' 
sensible questions, but monstous long ones. You must let 
me git over that first awful and ontimely skene befo' I can 
anser sich long questions as them about poor Cousin Mal- 
viny. Them questions is civil questions, I know, and I 
shall anser 'em ; but they’re mighty long questions, Philip, 
and a body got to have time. Ain't he a book? Come 
now, Philippippimon, my honest friend, you astes me 
questions ; and far play, I astes you one. Ain't he a 
book? '' 

I could but admit that, if ever man was, it was Mr. 
Lively. 


CHAPTER IX. 

I HAD to let Mr. Bill expatiate at length upon his sur- 
prise and that of the public at this unexpected match before 
I could bring him to the finale. Mr. Bill admitted that he 
was at first not only embarrassed, but speechless. He 
never had expected to live to see the day when he should 
be in that condition before Susan Temple. But such it 
was. We never know what is before us. The longer a 
man lives to see anything, the more he finds that it is a 
solemn fact that he can’t tell what he may live to see. 
He had never been so minded of that as at the present ; 
" leastways '' on that blessed and " ontimely '' morning. 

" When I got so I could open my mouth,” said Mr. Bill, 
" in cose I feel like I ought to say somethin', even ef it war 
but a few lines, and — ah — some perliminary remarks — so 
to speak. So I goes up to Mr. Lively, I does, and I says 
to him : ' Mr. Lively,' says I, ' you has took us all by 
surprise. And you more so, Susan,’ says I ; ‘ which I 


134 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


sposen I ought to say Miss Lively, but which it zs so on- 
expected that I begs you’ll excuse me.’ And then I ast 
’em, I does, ef Cousin Malviny know of all sich carrin’s on. 
Susan she looked skeerd. And I tell you, Philippimon, 
that gurl look right scrimp tious with them fine things on 
and them shoes. But Mr. Lively war cool as a kercomber, 
or, what I mout ruther say, a summer evenin’ like, and he 
said that he sposen not. Then he say that he had stop to git 
his breakfast, him and Susan, and that arfter breakfast they 
was goin’ out thar ; but also that he war first goin’ to git 
Mr. Spouter to send Cousin Malviny word what had be- 
come of ’em, and that they was all safe, for he said he was 
afeerd his Aunt Malviny might be oneasy about ’em. And 
then I tells Mr. Lively that ef it suited him I would go 
myself. I tell you, Philip, I wanted to car’ that news out 
thar. Mr. Lively he sorter smile, and say he would be 
much obleege ef I would. I hurries on to the sto’, tells 
Mr. Jones what’s up, and gits leave to go to Cousin Mal- 
viny ; and I mighty nigh run all the way out thar. 

Cousin Malviny war standin’ at the gate. When I git 
about twenty yards from her I stop to catch a little breath. 
Cousin Malviny holler out to me, ^ Has you seen ’em. 
Cousin William? ’ I tried to be calm and cool, and I astes 
Cousin Malviny to be calm and cool. And I says, ' What’s 
the matter. Cousin Malviny? Ar anything wrong out 
here? Seed who?’ ^ Susan,’ says Cousin Malviny, ‘and 
Mr. Lively, and Uncle Moses.’ ‘Uncle Moses!’ says I; 
‘have Uncle Moses gone too?’ ‘Yes,’ says Cousin Mal- 
viny; ‘I sent Moses on John mule to look for ’em when 
I heerd they was gone.’ At the very minnit here come 
old Uncle Moses a-trottin’ on up on John mule; and I 
don’t know which war the tiredest and solemest, John or 
Uncle Moses. Cousin Malviny astes Uncle Moses what 
news. ‘Bad, missis,’ said Uncle Moses, ‘bad nuff. You 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


135 


see, missis, when you tole me git on top o’ John an’ take 
arter ’em, I thought fust they was gwine todes Augusty, but, 
missis, time I got to the creek and t’other side whar the 
roads forks, I gits off, I does, offen John, and looks close 
to the ground to find track of ’em an’ which road they 
tuck. Day, hit jes’ begin to crack a leetle bit ; and bless 
your soul, missis, they hadn’t been thar. I rode on back 
tell I got to our cowpen right yonder ; and shore nuff they 
has been done got down, let down the draw-bars, gone 
round the cowpen, let down the fence up yonder ontoo the 
road agin, back up yonder, and gone on todes Dukes- 
borough. I tracks ’em in that field thar same as Towser 
and Loud arter a possum.’ 

Cousin Malviny tell Uncle Moses to let possums alone 
and go on. ^ Yes, missis. I war jest tellin’ how dee let 
down our draw-bars an’ went through behind the cowpen 
yonder, an’ got ontoo the road agin an whipt on to town.’ 
But, Philip, I couldn’t stop for Uncle Moses to tell his 
tale ; it war always astonishin’ to me how long it do take a 
nigger to tell anything. So I tells Uncle Moses to go ’long 
and put up his mule, and feed him to boot, and hisself too, 
as I seed they was both of ’em hongry and tired, and that 
I knowed all about it and would tell Cousin Malviny my- 
self. And so I did tell her the upshot of the whole busi- 
ness. And oh, my honest friend, ef you ever see a person 
rip an’ rar, it war Cousin Malviny ; she came nigh an’ in 
an’ about as nigh cussin’ as she well could, not to say the 
very words. But which you know she ar a woming, and 
kin to me — leastways we claims kin ; and you mustn’t say 
anything about it. When I told her they was cornin’ back 
arfter a little, she declared on her soul that they shouldn’t 
nary one of ’em put their foot into her house ef she could 
keep ’em from it ; and it look like, she said, she ought to 
be mistiss of her own house. Well, I war natchelly sorry 


136 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


for Cousin Malviny, an’ I astes her ef Mr. Lively have 
promise to marry her. Cousin Malviny say that no, he 
didn’t in ezactly them words ; but he have bought furni- 
toor, an’ talk in sich a way about the place an’ everything 
on it as ef he spected to own it hisself ; and she war spectin’ 
him to cote her, and then she war goin’ to think about it 
when he did ast : not that she keerd anything about him no 
way ; and now sense he had done gone and made a fool 
o’ hisself, and took up with that poor, good-for-nothin’ 
Susan Temple, he mout go ; and as for cornin’ into her 
house, she would set Towser and Loud arfter him first. 
Now I know that war all foolishness ; and specially about 
them dogs, which I knowed they was bitin’ dogs, and which 
I wouldn’t a gone out o’ that house that night I stayed thar 
ef I hadn’t knew that Uncle Moses have went possum- 
huntin’ ; but which I told Cousin Malviny that them dogs 
warn’t goin’ to pester Mr. Lively nor Susan, becase they 
knowed ’em both as well as they knowed her. We was 
inside the gate, and we was jest a-startin’ to go to the 
house when here drive up Mr. Lively and Susan. ' Here, 
Towser! here. Loud!’ hollers out Cousin Malviny, ^here, 
here!’ Says I to Cousin Malviny, ‘Cousin Malviny, ef 
them dogs bites anybody here to-day, it’s a- goin’ to be 
me ; and I hopes you will stop callin’ of ’em.’ But bless 
your soul, my friend Phiiipiminon, them dogs was round 
by the kitchen, and they heerd Cousin Malviny and they 
come a-tarin’ and a-yellin’. As soon as they turned the 
corner o’ the house, I seed they thought I was the person 
they was to git arfter. I jumps back, I does, an4 runs 
through the gate and shets it. ‘Sick ’em, Towser! Sick 
’em, my boys,’ says Cousin Malviny — the foolishest that 
I think I ever see any sensible person ever do sense I 
war born ; but Cousin Malviny, all the eyes she had war 
upon Mr. Lively, and he war a-gittin’ out of the gig, cool 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


137 


and calm, and he give Susan the reins to hold. ^ Sick ’em, 
my boys!’ kept hollerin’ Cousin Malviny, outen all reason. 
Well, sir, lo and behold! while old Towser war at the gate 
a-rippin’ and a-roarin’ to git out. Loud he run down about 
thirty steps whar thar;war a rail off the yard fence, and he 
lit over and he come a-chargin’. I says to myself, ef here 
ain’t a responchibility nobody ever had one, and the only 
way I has to git outen it is to clime that gate-post. So I 
hops up, one foot on a rail of the fence, hands on the gate- 
post, and t’other foot on one of the palin’s o’ the gate. I 
war climbin’ with all that bein’ in a hurry that you mout 
sposen a man in my present sitooation would know he have 
no time to lose. I has done got one foot on top o’ the 
fence, and war about to jerk the t’other from between the 
gate palin’s, when old Towser he grab my shoe by the toe, 
inside the yard, and the next minute Loud he have me by 
my coat-tails outside. 

At this very minute Mr. Lively have farly got down 
from the gig ; and when he seed Loud have me by my 
last coat-tail (for he have done tore off t’other), he rush up, 
gin him a lick with his hickory-stick, and speak to Towser, 
and they let me go. Bless your soul, Philip ! I war too 
mad to see all what follered. Both o’ my coat-tails was 
tore pretty well off ; and hadn’t been for my shoes bein’ 
so thick, an’ tacks in ’em to boot, I should a lost one of 
my toes, and maybe two. When I got sorter cool I see 
Mr. Lively tryin’ to show Cousin Malviny a paper, and 
call her aunty. When she hear Mr. Lively call her aunty. 
Cousin Malviny, who have been a-ravin’ all this time, she 
say that war too much ; and then she go in the house, and 
sink in a chair and call for her smellin’ phial, and tell ’em to 
put her anywhar they wants to, ef it even war her grave. 
She give up farly and squarly. 

Come to find out, Mr. Lively, while I war gittin’ back 


138 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


my temper and bein' sorter cool — for I tell you, boy, I 
war never madder in my life — Mr. Lively have been a-tellin' 
Cousin Malviny what I’m now a-tellin’ of you, that that 
place and everything on it belong to him now as the hus- 
band o’ Susan ; and which they hav§ jes’ t’other day found 
Hodge’s will, which he have hid away in that desk ; and 
which Hodge he give everything thar to Susan and Cousin 
Malviny jintly, ontell Cousin Malviny’s death, and arfter- 
ward the whole to Susan ; and which he have pinted Mr. 
Lively his Ezecketer; that is a law word, Philipip — a- 
meanin’ that somebody arfter a man dies have got to tend 
to the business in ginerly. 

‘'And now, Philip, I tell you that Mr. Lively is a right 
clever old man arfter all. He is from old North Calliner, 
shore nuff ; and away long time ago he have a plantation 
thar, and once goin’ to marry a gurl over thar, long time 
ago, but she took sick and died. And then once he got 
low-sperited like, and sold out and move to Augusty and 
buy prop’ty, and make more money and buy more prop’ty, 
tell he got to be worth twenty thousand dollars at least 
calc’lation. Did you ever see sich a man? 

“ Well, he got tired livin’ in sich a big place, and he 
want to git back in the country. But somehow he don’t 
feel like goin’ back to old North Calliner; and then he git 
acquainted with Hodge, and he heern about Dukesborough, 
and so he come here. Well, arfter Hodge he died. 
Cousin Malviny, you see, she think about changin’ her con- 
ditions again, and they ain’t no doubt but she take arfter 
Mr. Lively. She deny it now ; but wimming can’t fool 
me. Well, Mr. Lively he git somehow to like the place 
and don’t want to go away from it ; but he see somethin’s 
obleeged to be done ; and he have always like Susan, becase 
he see Cousin Malviny sorter put on her so much. Hodge 
war sorry for Susan too, and he use to talk to Mr. Lively 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


139 


about her ; and he tell Mr. Lively that ef he died he war 
goin' to ’member her in his will. But shore nuff they 
couldn’t find no will, and Mr. Lively he sposen that Hodge 
done forgot Susan ; and so he make up his mind to cote 
her, and ef she’d have him he mean to buy out the prop’ty 
even if he have to pay too much for it. So he go to cotin’ 
Susan the first chance he git ; and Susan, not spectin’ she 
war ever goin’ to be coted by anybody, think she better 
say yes^ and she say yes. It war a quick cotin’ and a quick 
anser. But lo and behold! Susan found in the sto’ one 
day a paper, and she give it to Mr. Lively ; and Mr. Lively 
see it war Hodge’s will, as I tell you. But this didn’t alter 
Susan; for when the old man told her about it, and say 
he’d let her off ef she wanted to, Susan say she don’t want 
to be let off ; and you now behold the conshequenches. 

“And now, Philip, what make I tell you he’s a right 
clever old feller is this : when Cousin Malviny have sorter 
come too, and understan’ herself and the sitooation she 
war in, Mr. Lively call Susan in ; for I tell you that gurl 
war not for gittin’ out o’ that gig till matters got cooler. 
And then Mr. Lively tell Cousin Malviny that she mout 
stay right whar she war, and that he war goin’ to fix up 
her house, and she mout keep her same room, only it should 
have new furnitoor, and he would fix another room for 
him and Susan ; and he war goin’ to find everything hisself, 
and she shouldn’t be at no expense ; and ef she got mar- 
ried he would give her more’n the will give her in money, 
and she mout will away her intrust into the bargain and he 
would pay it in money ; only Mr. Lively say that sto’ must 
be broke up, and he will pay her down in cash twice what 
the stock war worth. Arfter all this. Cousin Malviny gin 
up for good, and call for Susan. Susan went to her, and 
they hugged ; and Cousin Malviny she laughed, and Susan 
she cried. I could but notice them two wimming. Hit 


140 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


was the first time them two wimming ever hugged, and I 
couldn’t but notice the difference. One of ’em was 
a-laughin’ and one was a-cryin’ ; and which I couldn’t see 
the use nor the sense of nary one. But wimming’s wim- 
ming, and you can’t alter ’em. 

But it war time I war leavin’ and goin’ back to my 
business. Thar business war not mine. I bids them wim- 
ming good-bye ; and I astes Mr. Lively, ef it war not too 
much trouble, to see me throo the gate and safe from them 
dogs ; becase I told Mr. Lively I didn’t want to hurt them 
dogs, but I wanted ’em not be pesterin’ o’ me no more. 
Mr. Lively he go with me about a hundred yards ; and as 
I war about to tell him good-bye, I says to Mr. Lively, 
says I, ' Mr. Lively, it ’pear like you has plenty o’ money ; 
and I don’t sposen that you think people ought to lose any- 
thing by ’tending to y{?ur business, when it’s none o’ theirn. 
Well, Mr. Lively, it seems like somebody by good rights, 
reasonable speakin’, somebody ought to pay for my coat- 
tails ; for you can see for yourself, that ef this coat is to 
be of any more use to me it’s got to be as a round jacket ; 
and all this business whar it got tore — and I come mon- 
stous nigh gittin’ dog-bit — war none o’ mine, but t’other 
people’s ; and it seem like I ought to git paid by some- 
body.’ Mr. Lively smile and say ' of cose,’ and asts me 
about what I sposen them coat-tails was worth ; and I tells 
him I don’t think two dollars and a half was high. And 
then, Philip, ef he didn’t pull out a five-dollar bill and give 
me, I wish I may be dinged! 

And then, what do you sposen that blessed and on- 
timely old man said to me ? Says he, ^ Mr. Williams, you 
did lose your coat-tails, and come very nigh being badly 
dog-bit while looking on at business which, as you say, 
was not yours. You’ve got paid for it. When you were 
out here before, Mr. Williams, you took occasion to look 


MR. JONAS LIVELY. 


141 

at some other business — oh, Mr. Williams, I saw your 
tracks, and you told on yourself next morning at breakfast. 
Towser and Loud were then gone with Uncle Moses pos- 
sum-hunting. Sup-pose they had been at home, and had 
caught you in the dark at my window. Don’t say any- 
thing, Mr. Williams, but let this be a lesson to you, my 
young friend. There’s more ways than one of paying for 
things. I advise you not to talk about what you saw that 
night to any more people than you can help. lam not 
anxious to fool people, and haven’t done it ; but I would 
ruther people wouldn’t dog me about. You see how un- 
pleasant it is to be dogged, and what Loud got for med- 
dling with your coat-tails. But he didn’t know any better. 
You do, or ought to. Let Loud’s be a example to you, 
Mr. Williams. Good-day, Mr. Williams.’ And he left me 
befo’ I could say a single word. 

'^Now, Philip, I war never so much nonplushed in all 
my bom days ; and which when he talk about how Loud 
mout be an ezample, I knowed what he mean, becase 
which I don’t have to be knock downstairs befo’ I can 
take a hint. But you see, under all the circumsances, I 
think it’s maybe best not to say anything about the old 
man’s har. Not as I keer for his old hickory-stick, becase 
thar’s plenty o’ hickories in the woods ; but, it mout git 
you into difficulties ; and ef it was to do that, I should jest 
feel like I ought to take the responchibility, and I should 
do it. So le’s keep still. I hain’t told nobody but you 
and Mr. Jones ; and he’s a man of mighty few words any- 
how, and he ain’t goin’ to talk. So le’s let the old man 
go, and not interrupt him, and wish him much joy of his 
young wife. Poor Cousin Malviny ! But she look peert 
as ever. I see her yistiday, and she look peert as old 
Molly’s colt. But wimming’s wimming, Philip, and you 
can’t alter ’em.” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


CHAPTER I. 

Mr. Richard Parkinson sat by his fireside on an even- 
ing in the fall of the year. He was of about five-and-forty 
years, and in good vigor. His fine face, with the large 
brown eyes that saw for themselves, and his tall, unbent 
form, showed, in spite of a few gray hairs among his glossy 
black locks, that time had dealt lightly with him. Fond of 
the chase, his horn and his hounds were wont to be heard 
at least twice a week in the hunting season. In pursuit of 
the fox no whoop more loud and clear, no steed more swift 
and sure, than those of Mr. Parkinson. But this very 
morning he and his hounds had their usual sport. In the 
back piazza hung the fox-tail, his trophy ; and now he was 
waiting for the return of the servant with his mail. 

There, also, sat Mrs. Richard Parkinson. If the husband 
seemed young for his age, the wife seemed younger for 
hers. Forty times had she seen the year come and go. If 
you had not known that, you would have supposed, except 
for one thing, that she could not be beyond thirty. 

I say except for one thing. That was her daughter 
Lucy, who was approaching her nineteenth birthday. 

A prettier or a sweeter girl could not have been found 
anywhere in middle Georgia. She was about of the middle 
height. Her form was slender, yet not wanting of sufficient 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


143 


fullness. Her hair was of a color properly compounded of 
the jet-black of her father’s and the fair of her mother’s. 
And how plenteous it was! If she was vain of her hair, 
as before the mirror in making her morning toilet she 
gathered it in her white hand, almost too small to grasp the 
luxuriant wisp, and led it round and round and round until 
it sat upon that fine head an ornament of glory, no right- 
minded person would have blamed her. Hazel were her 
eyes, large like her father’s, though not lustrous as his, but 
soft, liquid, deep. Her skin was fair, and her cheeks, 
though not habitually rosy, indicated perfect health. Her 
mouth — oh, dear me I — I have not the time, nor at my age 
the talent, to describe minutely just such a girl as Lucy 
Parkinson. I can only repeat that I never saw a sweeter 
or prettier in all my life — not even in middle Georgia in 
the times when I was a boy. 

The last personage, and least of the group, was Jack Par- 
kinson, then ten years old. His light hair and complexion, 
and stout, square form, so unlike his father’s, had led that 
gentleman, in the infancy of this his only male offspring, to 
cal him a Fort. For Mrs. Parkinson before her marriage 
was Miss Susan Fort. The Forts were as much below the 
middle height as the Parkinsons were above it. Then the 
Forts were very fair, while the Parkinsons were brown. 
When Richard Parkinson and Susan Fort were married, 
the disparity of the couple was the theme of much plea- 
sant jesting. 

On the night of the wedding, Mr. Parkinson the elder, 
Richard’s father, was said to have perpetrated the only, or 
at least the best, joke of his life. For he had ever been a 
serious person, as most men of his extreme length are. He 
had been observed to look with much earnestness upon the 
couple while the ceremony was going on. When it was 

over his countenance relaxed into an expression indicating 
10 

1 ' ' ■ . 


144 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


remote cheerfulness. He nudged the fat side of old Mr. 
Fort, near whom he was standing, and then, having lowered 
his head until he could whisper into the latter’s ear, said, 
^'Archie, a black crane and a white guinea-chicken. Good 
cross, ain’t it? ” At which Mr. Archibald Fort laughed 
vehemently. Doubtless his hilarity was the greater because 
he had been so far from expecting any such thing from Mr. 
John Parkinson. So Mr. Fort laughed and shook his sides, 
and was enabled at length to say emphatically. Yes, he did, 
blamed if he didn’t! After this Mr. John Parkinson went 
up again to his native height and dignity, and stayed there. 
But Mr. Fort, more than once afterward and during the 
evening, was heard to say, after a silent shake, I didn’t 
think — ^upon my word, I didn’t think it was in him.” But 
this little prophetic jest of the elder Parkinson, while it did 
meet with a verification in Lucy, who combined the physi- 
cal characteristics of her parents with improvement on both 
the original stocks, seemed to have been lost on Jack, who, 
from the day of his birth until now, had shown himself to 
be all Fort. Mr. Parkinson used, therefore, in comparing 
his two surviving children with each other, to say that Lucy 
was a Parkinson but Jack was a Fort. 

So there they sat by the fireside, these four, and a snug 
little family they made. Little Jane was not there, it is 
true — ^little Jane, who was Jack’s junior by two years, and 
his playmate. She had been gone two years. Her depart- 
ure had cast a shadow on all hearts there, but mostly on 
the mother’s. But time and heaven had brought much 
consolation, and the mother had enough of love for those 
who survived to make her life yet very happy. 

It was a snug little family. Jack was the main talker 
to-night. He had been in the fox-chase that morning for 
the first time. A noted rabbit-hunter he was, but had 
never been allowed until this morning to follow the fox. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


145 


All day he had been full of the great things of the morning. 
His mother and sister had been to town and had not re- 
turned until night, so his triumphs had to be recounted 
during the day only to the negroes. To-night, when the 
supper was over, they expressed a desire, upon a wink from 
his father, to hear something about the race. It was a 
spirited narrative. The ladies were delighted to hear him 
declaim upon the performances of the pack. Old Rock 
would keep before and Little Rock wouldn’t stay behind. 
Terror was the first to see him, and when he did you might 
have heard him two miles. But at that very minute, Da- 
mon, a rascal who was two hundred yards off, knowing the 
fox’s ways, cut across and got in ahead. Once, and it was 
after an hour’s run, quarry doubled so that for awhile they 
thought they had lost him ; but old Pluto went back and 
circled, until suddenly lifting his head toward the sky and 
howling out a scold and a triumph, carried it off again. 
But the puppies Jeff and Matt, they were the fellows! 
They made more fuss than any four dogs there, not know- 
ing, in his opinion, what was up until they saw him ; for the 
little fools had run off twice after rabbits, and this was the 
very thing that had bothered them. And that pony: 
didn’t he enjoy it! He knew what they were after as well 
as anybody. 

Jack, having finished the narrative, and finding it not 
interesting to his hearers to tell it more than once, grew 
sleepy and went to bed. At that moment the servant 
brought in the mail — a letter and the weekly newspaper. 
The letter was a long one. While Mr. Parkinson was 
reading it, Lucy glanced over the paper and read items of 
news in a subdued tone to her mother. When her father 
had finished, he laid the letter on the table and looked 
musingly into the fire. 

It is quite a long letter you have,” said his wife. 


146 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Yes,” he answered. He is coming, sure enough.” 
Who? ” asked both ladies at once. 

Overton.” 


CHAPTER II. 

George Overton was a Virginian, from the town of 
Staunton. From this section the Parkinsons had emigrated 
to Georgia thirty-five years before. After some correspond- 
ence it was agreed that the young man should repair to Mr. 
Parkinson ^s and remain until he could find an opening for 
his purpose, which was to become a lawyer. Meanwhile, 
as it was further understood, Overton, as compensation 
which he insisted upon making in some way for this kind- 
ness, was to superintend the studies of Jack Parkinson. 

This service had been performed heretofore for Jack as 
well as possible by his sister. She had been well educated, 
considering the times, at Savannah. But Lucy Parkinson 
by experience had found out a truth which it is surprising 
how slow many parents are to discover : that very few chil- 
dren, especially male, can be well educated without having 
companions in their studies. Jack Parkinson, who was 
uncommonly good and sensible for an only son of a man 
of some wealth, was not an exception to this rule. Lucy, 
after about a year’s trial, was disposed to give him up as a 
pupil, provided that anything better could be done in his 
case. 

It was at this juncture that George Overton proposed to 
come to Georgia ; and as he had shown a very decided 
desire to get some occupation for the time that must be 
spent in his legal studies, it occurred to Mr. Parkinson to 
propose to him to keep a small school in a house which he 
would build upon his own ground, and to which he knew 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


147 


that several of his neighbors would be glad to send their 
children. To this proposition Overton consented readily. 
The room was built, and the school was to be opened at 
the beginning of the year. 

The new teacher arrived late in December. He was 
pleased, and so were the Parkinsons, only Jack was a little 
shy ; he had heard something of schoolmasters. Mr. Par- 
kinson could not but allow to himself that his having come 
from Virginia was much in his favor. Then he knew that 
he was of good family. Yet he must stick to the principles 
of the old Virginia Parkinsons, and let his judgment, or the 
utterance of it, wait awhile. The young man’s looks and 
behavior were all right. He was tall, and slender, and 
graceful, and strong. He was polite, easy, and good- 
humored. 

On his travel throughout the afternoon he had been put 
into a satisfied mood from admiring the country, which at 
that time was so fresh and strong. Very much of the 
primeval forest was then standing ; and, though the leaves 
had fallen from the trees, the magnificent growth of oak, 
interspersed with the poplar, and maple, and chestnut, and 
gum, and short-leaf pine, filled his eye with admiration. 
A servant with a gig had met him at the county town and 
driven him out to Chestnut Grove, as Mr. Parkinson had 
named his residence. On the way he had speculated much 
upon what manner of place it was that was to be his tem- 
porary home. His blue eye brightened as the driver 
turned from the road and drove up through the long avenue 
of chestnuts. The house was a well-built, square, two-story 
building, with two wings of one story proceeding in a line 
with the rooms in the rear. The yard of about four acres 
was inclosed with a board paling. Overton noticed the 
foremost of a row of negro cabins, which, beginning at 
some distance behind the mansion, extended backward and 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


148 

fronted the garden. There was but little shrubbery in the 
front yard ; the forest growth allowed little room for any 
other form of tree or flower. There were two or three 
cedars, but the flower-bushes were mainly in the garden. 

There was an air of thorough gentihty about this place, 
though the mansion was of some years’ standing, and was 
a little brown for the lack of fresh painting. It had a 
proud but not inhospitable look, that mansion. As the gig 
drove up, the huge oaken gate was opened by several little 
negroes, whose sleek faces and active forms showed that 
they were both well-fed and happy. 

Until that afternoon Overton had not known of Lucy 
Parkinson. He felt all the gratification which an educated 
and well-bred man must have in making the acquaintance 
of such a young woman. When the evening was over and 
he had retired to his chamber, he sat long by the fire and 
mused. It was so strange to be so far and rather an exile 
from home, yet to be so free from repining. Thoughts of 
home became interwoven with those of the new persons 
among whom he was thrown, of their cordiality and gen- 
tility, and their evident interest in him and his purposes. 
For some time he yielded to these various emotions, and 
then retired to his bed. 

I like him so much,” said Lucy, after he had retired. 

I do believe we have done the best thing for Jack,” 
said the mother. Jack looked as if he thought matters 
might be much worse. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Parkinson, “he has the manners and 
breeding of a gentleman. His father’s family was all right. 
I don’t know who his mother was ; but he does seem to 
be, and I think is, a gentleman.” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


149 


CHAPTER III. 

The schoolhouse, a neat little framed building, was situ- 
ated about half a mile from Mr. Parkinson’s residence, near 
the roadside, and on a knoll of land at the foot of which 
was a spring of water. All schoolhouses in those days 
must be near springs. Oh, those old springs in the granite 
region of middle Georgia! 

In this place George Overton began his simple work. 
The consciousness of having a very superior education, 
considering those times, had precluded all apprehension 
of unfitness for the small duties of a country schoolmaster ; 
but all at once he felt a seriousness that was surprising to 
himself. 

About twenty boys and girls were there already. Among 
these were some of our acquaintances of Goosepond times. 
There were Amanda Grizzle, Henrietta Bangs, Amelia 
Jones, among the girls; and William Jones, Samuel Pate, 
Asa Boatright, and Abel Kitchens, among the boys. 

In a little while he looked over their books, set them their 
tasks, and began to walk to and fro, ruminating on the 
strangeness of his new position. While thus engaged, he 
noticed an elderly woman riding toward the house. When 
she had approached within a few paces of the door she 
stopped, and asked if she could see the schoolmaster. He 
took his hat and walked out to her, following several steps as 
she led him on ; then she pointed to a lad who was leaning 
on the fence in the road at some distance from them. 

^‘That’s my son,” she said. Law bless me! I do be- 
lieve I forgot to say good-momin’. Excuse my manners, 
sir, if you please ; but that boy that you see standin’ yonder 
is my son, and he’s the onliest child I have in this world,’* 


150 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Overton looked at the boy for a moment, and turned 
again to the mother. 

Now I see,” she began again, I see that you don’t 
know what I mean and what I’m talkin’ about : do you, 
or don’t you? ” 

I don’t think I quite understand you, my good lady ; 
but if you mean that you have not the means to send him 
to school, but would like to do so — 

Thar now ! I knowed he didn’t understand me. I do 
want to send him to school for a quarter, ef no more. I 
hain’t much, that’s a fact, but yit I can pay for it, and 
wouldn’t by no means wish to have him teached for nothin’. 
Oh yes, I can pay for it ; but that ain’t the thing. The 
question is, will you take him? Now, you must mind what 
you goin’ to say, because I wants to take no ’vantage of 
nobody. I can pay for it if you’ll take him.” 

Overton smiled, and answered, '' Certainly I will take 
him, my dear madam. Why not? ” 

Ah, that’s it ! — why not. Because he’s done gone and 
font one schoolmarster already, and the onliest one he ever 
went to; and have sorter disgraced hisself. I thought 
maybe you might heerd about it, as you was a-boardin’ at 
Mr. Parkson’s ; which, though they are rich, yit they know 
us, and has been monstous good to us, specially Miss Park- 
son and Lucy ; and they knows that boy ain’t a bad boy 
nately ; yit we, that is, him and me, we thought that, spe- 
cially bein’ of a schoolmarster yourself, you might not like 
no sich, under no circumstances whatsomever ; which I my- 
self sposen I wouldn’t ef I was a man, and was high lamed 
and war a schoolmarster ; and which we also, him and me, 
we thought maybe you hadn’t heerd about it, and that we 
ought to tell you ef you hadn’t ; and I made him stay 
yonder till I told it myself^ because I knowed I could tell 
it better’n he cpuld.^^ 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 




I suppose this is Mrs. Glisson? said Overton. 

'‘Yes, sir. Law bless me! I been talkin’ to the man 
all this time and never even told him who I war. Yes, sir, 
I’m her; that’s my name, and I’m his mother; and I tell 
you, sir, that he war not so mighty much to blame as you 
mout suppose. I know that as I am his mother, and he’s 
my onliest child, it’s reasonable that I should take his part ; 
but which I don’t believe, indeed I don’t believe I would 
take his part if I knowed he war in the wrong, Mister — 
Mis — ter — ” 

“ Overton is my name.” 

Yes, sir. Law me! I knowed what it war, but I for- 
got it at the minit. Excuse my manners, sir, if you please. 
I knowed it; Lucy and little Jack Parkson both told me, 
and they are both mighty good children. Lucy, of course, 
she’s a grown young woman now, and the smartest and 
prettiest, and the best to old people and poor people of any 
girl in all this country, and is jes’ exactly like her mother 
war before her. Oh yes, I knowed your name, but I for- 
got it at the minit. Well, now, Mr. Overton, you see that 
boy a-standin’ yonder? Well, though I say it that oughtent, 
he’s nately as biddable a boy and as obedient to them that’s 
above him, as anybody’s child, I keer not whomsoever they 
mout be. And he tried to git along with the schoolmarster, 
and he studied his lessons every night of his life till I made 
him go to bed, and up before day every mornin’, and the 
man wouldn’t be satisfied, and made the child go beyant 
hisself in his books ; and then he took to abusin’ him, and 
beatin’ him, and so he got him cowed down to nothin’, and 
then he — well, he jes’ forgot hisself, and font him.” 

She looked anxiously at Overton for a moment, and con- 
tinued : 

” Oh, Mister — Mister Overton, it war monstous onfort- 
nate ; but you know that arfter they begun it the child had 


152 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


to fight for life, for I tell you he war a monstous hard 
man, and which I begs your pardon for sayin' so about a 
schoolmarster.” 

Overton was amused at her eagerness, especially her 
apology for the terms in which she had alluded to Mr. 
Israel Meadows. 

I will take your son with pleasure, madam. I have 
heard something of the treatment which he received. I 
think we can get along together ; at least we can try. If 
we fail, we can separate in a friendly way.” 

'' The Lord bless you, sir. Mr. Overton, the child ain't 
been raised nuther to fightin' nor to be impudent to grown 
people, and God bless you for not turnin’ him off.” 

She beckoned to Brinkly, and he came up. 

Mr. Overton says he’ll take you, my son — that is, on 
trial ; and ef you don’t behave yourself, now mind you, ef 
you don’t — ” 

Overton interrupted her, and, taking Brinkly by the 
hand, said that he w^as glad he had come, and he did not 
doubt that they should be friends. Brinkly looked humbly 
but steadily at the master, and said that he would try to 
do all that was told him. The widow delivered to her son 
a short lecture, which was mixed up of scolding, threats, 
and praise ; then bidding Overton good-morning, she went 
off, about as happy an old soul as one would be apt to see 
riding along the road at that time of day. 

When Brinkly came in there were signs of satisfaction 
on the part of the boys. Bill Jones winked one eye at 
Sam Pate, and Sam passed it over to Asa Boatright, who 
nodded to both the other gentlemen. After examining 
Brinkly and assigning him a task, the teacher sat down 
and tried to reflect. He was puzzled how to begin. The 
ways these urchins had did not serve to help him. How 
they did eye him as he sat there! He rose and walked to 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


153 


and fro, and they eyed him yet more, all except Brinkly 
and Jack Parkinson; these went at once to their work 
The others pretended to do the same, but they watched 
the teacher continually. There was one little fellow who 
was especially interesting to Overton. He too was an old 
Gooseponder, the same who was represented as having 
been so far gone under the Meadows rule that to the last he 
could not understand that great business of the breaking- 
up — Abel Kitchens. He was very small for his age, of 
eleven years, slender, but rather knotty-looking, with sandy 
hair, very piercing hawk-eyes, and a long, thin nose, curv- 
ing downward at the end, and always shining and looking as 
if it had been newly peeled. He wore sumac-dyed home- 
spun clothes. He sat on a line with Jack Parkinson, and 
at first watched him and Overton alternately. Jack’s nice 
clothes attracted him. Soon, however, he dropped Jack 
and his clothes, and watched Overton alone. He eyed 
him over his book, then under, now from one side, now 
from the other. But he studied awfully. To convince the 
teacher of this, he kept up a continual swaying to and fro 
and a buzzing with his lips. At intervals, in order to see 
him better, Abel would rise from his seat, dart at him, and, 
putting a finger on his word, hold the book up to him, the 
back toward himself, and look him through and through ; 
then, rushing back to his seat, his eyes would shoot at him 
again from all sides of his book. Wherever Overton went, 
that eye, like the basilisk’s, preyed upon him. He was 
alternately amused and embarrassed by it. Once or twice 
he felt that it would be a relief to wring his little neck 
somewhat. Reflecting that this would not do, and not being 
able to find what would do, this young Virginian, though 
a man of education and courage, then and there debated in 
his mind whether he would or not take his hat and run away. 
He decided at once that it was quite a job to get his 


154 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


pupils out of the jumble in which he found them. He 
understood the difficulties of the case, and that was all 
that he did understand at first. He was able to make the 
diagnosis. There were cataracts, strabismuses, and all 
manner of ailings in the catalogue of the ophthalmist, 
down to the case of little Abel Kitchens, who seemed to 
have been born blind. The young physician was sore 
puzzled. 

But he was enlightened, and, what was more, he was 
humane. When he had fully understood the injury these 
children had endured from Israel Meadows, and such as 
him, he pitied them. Their general apparent stupidity, 
and their almost universal proclivity to falsehood, were sad 
to behold ; and his heart sickened to see the distrust and 
the abject fear with which they regarded him. 

But youth is strong and hopeful. He felt that he could 
at least remove their distrust and fear, and he hoped to be 
able in time to gain their friendship. Fortunately, he had 
a coadjutor in Jack Parkinson. The others saw that Jack 
was neither a fool nor a slave, although he had been made 
to study books. It was amazing to them that he should 
like the schoolmaster, and even be upon easy terms with 
him, while at the same time he took a hearty part in their 
sports. Yet they had a way of accounting for all this. 
Mr. Overton boarded with the Parkinsons, who were richer 
than they were ; and no matter what Jack did, it would be 
all right. As for Abel, he had no views upon the subject. 
He constantly pierced the master every day with eyes and 
nose, and seemed to wonder at not being beaten half to 
death. He could not understand this case any more than 
the former ; indeed, he seemed to be even more helpless 
than before. There was danger that he might come in 
time either to feel contempt for the schoolmaster or grow 
thoroughly insane. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


155 


And now in this little realm there was needed, in order 
to counterbalance the patrician influence, a representative 
of the Third Estate, one with homespun clothes and a wool 
hat, to settle with the upper estates upon some safe and 
reasonable understanding. The commoner for this mo- 
mentous undertaking was Brinkly Glisson. 

Two such persons could not long misunderstand each 
other. Overton readily measured the amount and the 
kind of work that he could do, set him to it, and gently 
led him along. Before the end of the week he was an- 
other boy altogether. How he did study ! Not in the 
old digging way that we first found him at. Overton had 
already taught him other modes of obtaining knowledge 
than by grubbing it up with his head for a hoe. The boy 
was so grateful, and in his small way so proud, that the 
young teacher felt some kindred emotions, and was better 
pleased with himself than he had ever been before. How 
little it often costs to bestow a blessing upon the lowly, 
and how rich is the return to the bestower! 


CHAPTER IV. 

But while Brinkly was doing so well, the rest were yet 
in the jumble. They had been in a much worse condition 
than he ; for while he had been badly shaken, yet he had 
kept enough of his native wits to be able at last to break 
away. Then there had been an individuality in his case. 
They had all been scrambled, as it were, togefher, and 
there seemed to be no earthly way of pulling out one with- 
out getting the whole lump. Overton tried all expedients 
— lecturing, encouraging, persuading, threatening to drive 
them home. They had little confidence in anything which 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


156 

had the appearance of kindness or of concern for their hap- 
piness. They were not to be fooled with so incredible a 
thing as that a schoolmaster cared any more for the happi- 
ness of his pupils than for so many dogs and cats that be- 
longed to other people. His show of kindness was about 
as if he were angling with an insufficient hook among timid 
little fishes in a shallow stream where they could distinctly 
see the fisherman. He could never get more than a nib- 
ble. Occasionally a horny-head would make as if he were 
inclined to bite, and would play around the bait. Not 
taking hold, the angler would make a sly jerk in the hope 
of hooking him in some way or other, whereupon he would 
take fresh fright and scamper off with all the minnows at 
his tail. 

Overton was really embarrassed. The servile fear 
which they felt toward him distressed as well as disgusted 
him. So did their falsehood and their treachery among 
themselves. In vain he joked with them. But it is poor 
fun when nobody laughs at a joke but the joker. The 
only response he could get was great stares that a school- 
master could tell jokes and laugh. True, they remem- 
bered that Mr. Meadows used to laugh in the circus ; but 
that laugh was not one of the sort that was catching, while 
this man's was hearty and genial, and therefore must be a 
snare. 

But for Brinkly, Overton would have been forced to 
give it up. Brinkly's case was a poser to them. Remem- 
bering how bravely he had broken off one set of shackles, 
and now seeing him so happy, so fond of his books, and 
so in love with his teacher — they could make nothing of 
them. Sometimes they were inclined to believe that he 
had been bought over by the enemy, and they rather ex- 
pected to see him come to school some morning with store 
clothes on ; and, when he did not, they had to give it up. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


157 


Brinkly knew their difficulties, and talked with them in 
private ; he made many comparisons between things here 
and things at the Goosepond. The girls came over first, 
and then the boys must follow. By slow degrees they 
came to their senses, and began to take a feeble hold upon 
things. 

A little accident occurred one day which probably served 
to hasten the adjustment. The teacher was sitting in his 
chair looking through the window in a musing mood. 
Suddenly a little girl cried out : Mist’ Ove’t’n, can’t you 
make Abel Kitch’n quit a-keepin’ a-constant a-makin’ 
mouths at me with his ole nose? ” 

Overton started. Abel immediately responded : 

I ain’t a-doin’ no sich thing. Mist’ Ove’t’n, and the gal 
know I ain’t. I wur jis’ a-settin’ here and a-gittin’ my 
lessin, and I wa’n’t a-studyin’ about the gal.” 

“ He know he wern’t,” she replied ; he wer a-makin’ 
mouths at me with his ole nose.” 

Abel persisted in denying the charge ; but it occurred to 
him to endeavor to divert the master’s attention from him- 
self, or at least to have others joined in the punishment. 

I never done no sich a thing,” he insisted ; and Asa 
Boatright he cussed, he did; and Bill Jones and Sam Pate 
they been a-fightin’ down to the spring.” 

The teacher laughed and laughed ; he laughed till he 
shed tears. Then Brinkly and Jack laughed, and then the 
girls, and then the boys, except the four culprits. When 
he was able to grow serious he talked kindly, but remon- 
strated upon such improprieties. But most of all he con- 
demned Abel for tale-bearing. He declared that if Abel 
were not such a little fellow he would feel like breaking his 
neck square off. He should not watch the boys himself, 
and they should not watch one another. He would have 
no meanness and no lies, even if he had to quit keeping 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


158 

the school himself, or come down to Brinkly Glisson, Jack 
Parkinson, and the girls. He told them that if they ex- 
pected to make of themselves men who were to be of any 
account, it was high time that the most of them were learn- 
ing how, and that at least they should not grow up under his 
charge to be rascals. 

This was a great step for him, and it was not long before 
all were in a good way, except Abel. Abel still hung 
back ; he couldn’t understand yet. Overton had tried all 
the means he could think of. He had scolded, joked, flat- 
tered, to little purpose. The disappointment at not being 
flogged for his ungallant conduct, and at receiving abuse 
instead of thanks for giving information of the misconduct 
of the other boys, seemed to confuse him more and to 
render him somewhat dogged. Not that he was much 
afraid; for fear, as other feelings, seemed to have been 
beaten out of him at the Goosepond. But his deportment 
did not change. Those eyes and that nose inflicted in- 
numerable wounds upon the teacher every day. 

At last, one afternoon (it was the second Friday), just 
before the school was to be turned out, Overton deter- 
mined to make another trial. He went to where Abel sat, 
and in beseeching tones asked : 

Abel, my dear old fellow, tell me why I can’t do some- 
thing with you? Such a fine old fellow as you are! so 
smart, so good-looking! I would give anything in the 
world if I could do something for you! Tell me why I 
can’t.” 

He spoke in half-desperate, half-playful exclamation, not 
expecting an answer. He had placed his hand upon the 
little wretch’s head in rash defiance at whatever might 
come. The effect of this was to make Abel’s coarse hair 
rise like bristles. His eyes glared with uncommon wild- 
ness, and his nose became a two-edged sword. But the 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


159 


master persisted. Patting him on the head, now gently re- 
monstrating with him, now praising, he put the question to 
him again. Abel looked up to him with unutterable feroc- 
ity, clinched his yellow teeth together, and shot forth in 
screams the following sentences, pausing among them as 
we have sometimes seen small fire-balls projected from a 
Roman candle : 

Hit’s becase I hain’t got the hang o’ this school’ouse 

yit! 

“ Hit’s becase you ain’t like no schoolmarster nohow! 

** Hit’s becase you laughs in the school’ouse, and that 
when you ain’t mad nuther! 

‘‘ Hit’s becase you don’t whip nobody for fightin’, and 
won’t let nobody tell you nothin’, and I hain’t got the 
hang o’ nothin’ here 1 ” 

Overton was aghast. He looked around at the other 
boys. They were waiting for him to begin. He smiled, 
and they roared. In vain Abel tried with eyes and nose 
to pin them all down. The girls screamed. They had a 
great row. The poor little fellow didn’t have a friend. 

Overton had retreated from him during the explosions. 
He now went up to him again, took him up in his arms, 
carried him to his own chair, sat down, and placed him on 
his lap. What in the world could he have been thinking 
about, that he had not found out before what the difficulty 
was? It was as plain as day now. Just as soon as 
Abel could get the hang of things generally, which of 
course he was going to do right away, he would make one 
of the best scholars in this school or any other school. 
W e have seen a wild, puny, snagg}’’ little kitten run into a 
corner and caught in order to be tamed ; how it doubled 
Itself up and grinned and sniffed! We have taken it upon 
our laps, and hiding its head, and gently talking to it, and 
stroking its back, we at last have seen how, after repeated 


i6o 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


efforts to bite and scratch, it has gradually yielded to the 
gentle friction and gone to purring in comfort and content- 
ment. So Abel. He dared not bite and scratch, but he 
put his little legs straight out, and retreated his little back 
as far as he could, and shrunk up, and tried all the old re- 
sources of his eyes and nose. But he soon seemed to rec- 
ognize that their influence was gone. He gave himself 
up at last to the master’s fondling, and though he did not 
even smile in accord with the general merriment, yet when 
he was loose he went back to his seat looking subdued and 
reconciled. 

Overton now dismissed the school. He announced that 
all who really desired to be improved, and who intended to 
do right and tell no lies, and all who were not afraid of 
him, might come back on the next Monday morning ; but 
that all others might stay at home. He said he was espe- 
cially determined upon the subject of lies. He had never 
had a great fondness for dogs, but if it should be necessary 
to do so he intended to keep one hound for the piupose of 
chasing off any liars that might be there. 

That evening, while they were going home, Abel told 
Brinkly that all had come to him right thar while he sot in 
Mist’ Ove’t’n’s lap. 


CHAPTER V. 

Father, I would like to learn Latin.” 

The mischief ! I thought you considered your educa- 
tion finished.” 

“Very far from that! I wanted to study Latin in 
Savannah, but Miss Jennings advised against it, and said 
that girls did not need it.” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. i6i 

'' I am somewhat of the same opinion,” answered Mr. 
Parkinson ; but, admitting that it is worth while, how are 
you to learn it? ” 

'' You can teach me, for you learned Latin.” 

That’s a poor chance indeed! Even if I had not 
forgotten all that I ever learned about it, I have neither 
time nor talent for teaching ; but I have already forgotten 
all I ever knew about it, except, I believe, penna and 
bonus P 

Lucy was silent. 

Suppose you go to school to Mr. Overton. Susan, you 
must get a bigger dinner-basket, Lucy wants to go to 
school again.” 

I should think,” answered Mrs. P., ignoring the humor 
of her husband’s remark, “that if Lucy would like to 
learn it, Mr. Overton might give her lessons in private.” 

“That’s a good idea, wife. Who will ask him? ’’ 

“ Let Lucy do so herself.” 

Friday night, after supper. 

“ May we not have music to-night? ” asked Overton of 
Lucy, when they had met in the drawing-room. 

Lucy played and sang several pieces. 

“ Do you like teaching? ” she asked, turning slightly 
round on the piano-stool, and carelessly playing with one 
hand an indifferent air. 

“Not very much,” answered Overton, “yet it is more 
interesting than I expected to find it. There is more 
labor than I anticipated, and more anxiety and more 
pleasure.” 

“ You feel, then, as if you had quite enough to do? ” 

“Yes, indeed, such as it is.” 

“ And that you deserve to have your rest when the day’s 
work is over? ” 


i 62 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


‘'Why, as to any great meritoriousness, I must admit 
that I can plead only the claims of tired nature.’^ 

“You really, then, are fatigued by the exercises of the 
day? she said earnestly. 

“ I was at first. I was quite fatigued, but now since 
(as one of my little chaps told me to-day) I have gotten 
somewhat of the hang of things, I do the work with less 
pain ; yet when night comes on I am quite ready to leave 
off.’» 

“ Then there are your law studies.” 

“ No, they are a recreation.” 

“Are they quite enough for that purpose?” How 
rapidly her fair fingers ran over the keys ! 

“ Oh, quite enough ; I delight in my law studies.” 

Lucy rose from the piano. They seated themselves be- 
fore the fire, and their conversation went upon other things. 

Jack Parkinson usually got his lessons at night in Over- 
ton’s chamber. When the latter went up. Jack said to 
him : 

“ I suppose you have a new scholar, Mr. Overton? ” 

“Oh, dear me! I hope not; I have heard of none. 
Who is it? Another Abel? ” 

Jack looked quite embarrassed, but answered timidly that 
he had thought that his sister intended to ask Mr. Overton 
to give her lessons in Latin. At that moment Jack was 
called by Lucy to come downstairs. 

“ There now 1 ” thought the young man. “ And now I 
suppose the best thing I can do is to go to her and confess 
that I have told a lie about the fatigue and all that.” He 
rose and started down the steps. Just then Lucy went 
rapidly from the drawing-room, and immediately afterward 
he heard her singing gayly in her own chamber. 

The next morning Overton rose earlier than usual. When 
he had descended and was standing at the front door, he 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


163 


saw Lucy walking in the grove, and went to join her. The 
cool air had reddened her cheeks, and her eyes were liquid 
as the dew. She returned his salutation, and, he thought, 
regarded him with an expression of mock sympathy. 

‘'You have rested well, I hope? ” 

“ Oh yes, I always rest well, thanks to a good constitu- 
tion.^* 

“And plenty of work,** she added. 

“ According to that, I should rest yet more soundly if I 
had more work. But you. Miss Parkinson, you who have 
so little to do, I suppose you find sleep a burden and a 
bore. You must painfully watch for the morning. Isn*t 
it so? Whenever I come down, however early, I find you 
already risen.** 

“ I ? Why, I have more to do than you suspect ! True, 
I rise early, but that is from a habit of obedience to a rule 
of the house.** 

“Ay? Then I must take notice of that rule and con- 
form to it.** 

“ Oh, it is binding only on Jack and myself.** 

“And you have work to do also? ** 

“ Yes, indeed. You do not believe me? Well, hnprimis 
(that is a Latin word, is it not? — yes). Well, I aiii the 
keeper of this house. I superintend kitchen, dairy, and 
smoke-house. Besides, I work the bosoms of all of father*s 
shirts, and I make Jack*s clothes, and I cut and make my 
own.** 

“ Then you must be rather tired yourself at the close of 
the day.** 

“ Oh, very ! ** and the grove rang with her laugh. 

“ Well, I have been thinking,** said Overton, “ and I have 
concluded that I am not usually as much fatigued by my 
labors as I thought I was.** 

“ That, I fear, is because you are so refreshed this mom- 


164 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ing by your night's rest. I am sure that you have already 
too much." 

Upon my word, I have not." 

‘‘ What made you say so, then.^^ " 

I told a story." 

‘'Oh, Mr. Overton, I shouldn’t have thought it of you! 
And really, now, you think you could do any more work 
than you have already? " 

" Indeed I could — of the same sort, at least. I could at 
least enlarge the school a little. I could take one more 
scholar, and even one more class. Indeed, since I have 
been thinking about it, one thing more I am very anxious 
to do." 

She looked at him as much as to ask, what is that? 

“To give you lessons in Latin." 

“Jack had no business to tell you that. But he thought 
I had done so before. Really, then, you could give me 
lessons easily and without much trouble — upon your honor, 
now? " She held her finger up in warning. 

“ Upon my honor, I could, and it would give me real 
pleasure.” 

“ Then you shall do it, and you will receive all our thanks. 
But I notify you that you will have a dull scholar. I shall 
be another Abel." 

“Not when you get the hang of things," he said; and 
thus began their relation of teacher and pupil. 


CHAPTER VI. 

My firm belief to this day is that Miss Caroline Thigpen 
was without exception the best weaver I ever knew. She 
was about two years older than her brother Allen; and 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


165 

they were the only members of the family then living. 
They had a good piece of ground of a couple of hundred 
acres. On this Allen, v/ith four negroes, a man, his wife, 
and their two boys, used to make good crops, and was able 
to lay up a little every year. Everybody liked the Thig- 
pens. With all their industry they were as accommodating 
as any people in the neighborhood. If anybody was sick, 
Allen or his sister was ready to sit up at night. Sitting up 
with the sick seemed not to have the slightest influence 
upon their strength, for they never lost the day^s work by 
it. Any other special little accommodation which a neigh- 
bor wanted, and they could bestow, was always easily ob- 
tained. As for weaving, why, Caroline Thigpen in her 
mother’s lifetime stayed very little at home during the fall 
seasons, so much was she employed for miles and miles 
around to weave the jeans and the counterpanes. Since 
her mother’s death she had not been used to go so much 
away from home, and the materials were sent to her own 
house, for Allen was lonesome without her, and they were 
very fond of each other. Allen especially gloried in his 
sister Karline, as he called her. Sometimes when it would 
not be very convenient to send her the yarns, and she was 
begged as a special favor to go and do the weaving at a 
neighbor’s house, Allen, if that neighbor were somewhat 
of a favorite, urged her to go, saying that he could keep 
bachelor’s hall for awhile. Then she would go, finish her 
job as quickly as possible, and it was good to see how glad 
they both would be when she returned. 

I was always glad to see Miss Caroline come to our 
house. I spent much of my time in the weaving-room 
while she was there, and filled her quills and watched and 
talked to her as she tied her threads, and worked the 
treadles, and threw the two shuttles. She was fond of 
reading, and I think rather prided herself somewhat upon 


i66 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


the knowledge she had acquired from books. In this re- 
spect she was quite superior to Allen. She used to chide 
him, but very kindly, for not reading more himself and 
thus improving his mind ; but Allen complained that read- 
ing made him sleepy, and that he couldn’t remember what 
he read, except the '' Life of Marion.” This he was fa- 
miliar with, and he considered it the greatest of books next 
to the Bible. He had a notion that anything outside of 
that work that was worth knowing was known to his sister 
Karline, and that was enough for that family. 

Her jeans were beautiful, but what she prided herself 
upon were her counterpanes. She distinguished them by 
historic names. There was one figure which she called the 
Battle of New Orleans ; another Bonaparte a-crossing o’ 
the Rhine; another was Washington’s Victory. What 
special victory it was I don’t think was understood. I 
used to try to see the resemblance between these figures 
and the things signified, and when I could not I supposed 
that it must be there somewhere. 

Where is Bonaparte? ” I asked one day. 

“ Why, don’t you see that longest, biggest thread in the 
middle, and a-rising above the others? Well, that’s him.” 

But where’s the Rhine? ” 

‘^Lor’ bless your soul, child! Why, the balance of the 
counterpane’s the Rhine.” 

It seemed to me, I remember, that it was somewhat rash 
in Bonaparte to be going on a perilous enterprise with such 
a small body of men ; yet even to this day I never see a 
counterpane of the old fashion of raised figures that I don’t 
look out for that great chieftain crossing the mighty river. 

The Thigpens resided on the other side of Dukesborough 
from us, and near to the Parkinsons’. Miss Karline’s stay 
with us was generally about three weeks, in which time she 
usually rode one of my father’s horses home on Saturday 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


167 


nights, returning on Monday morning, except it might be 
meeting-Sunday, when she always came to church, and on 
to us when the service was over. 

It was on one of these Sundays, in the ride from 
church, that Mr. Bill Williams, who knew her well, began 
in his gay manner a sort of flirtation. On this occasion old 
Molly Sparks was unusually restive about her colt, who 
seemed to be determined, as it was a beautiful day, to run 
over every person and horse and vehicle on the road. Mr. 
Bill seemed to enjoy old Molly’s prancings consequent upon 
the erratic conduct of her offspring. They served to im- 
part to her some character of wildness which he seemed to 
be pleased that Miss Thigpen should witness his power to 
control. The truth was that, both from ploughing and from 
nursing, the mare looked rather thin, and but for her spirit 
would have cut a poor figure. As she reared and turned 
about and whickered, he sometimes would frown in view 
of the dangers to which any other rider would have been 
exposed, and then smile at what he knew must be the effect 
upon Miss Thigpen to see how he could avoid being dashed 
on the ground. ''She need me,” said Mr. Bill, "that’s 
who she need. She gittin’ above herself fast sence I been to 
town. And I don’t know but what it is time I war settlin’ 
myself anyway — stock gittin’ wild this way, and things goin’ 
wrong in giner’l. But a man can’t settle in the country 
jes’ so by hisself, you know, Miss Karline? ” 

Miss Karline answered that she did not know so well ; 
that that was a thing that a person had to settle for himself 
— that of course — yes indeed — it might be 07ie other per- 
son’s business, too ; leastways a part of it ; but of course — 
nobody knows. 

Mr. Bill, as usual, stopped at our house to dinner. My 
parents were surprised that Miss Karline seemed pleased 
with his attentions. " If Bill is in earnest,” remarked my 


i68 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


father, '' and can get her, he will do a good thing. But 
I doubt if he has sense enough to know what a fine girl 
she is.’* 

Why, Caroline is three or four years older than he is,” 
answered my mother. 

“ That would make no difference,” continued my father ; 
he would do a cash business to get her. Bill is getting to 
be of very little account there in Dukesborough. He had 
a right good turn for farming ; but he did not like that, 
and going to Dukesborough is likely to ruin him. If he 
could get Caroline, and then would go back home to the 
work he is fit for, he might do well. Her age is no ob- 
jection, or ought not to be with him.” 

William is rather fond of Elizabeth Aery, isn’t he, 
Philemon? ” asked my mother. 

'' Oh yes,” I answered ; but I gave it as my decided 
opinion that, if he ever had had any chance there, he had 
lost it on the day he and I had left Mr. Lorriby’s school. 

'' I tell you,” insisted my father, that if he can get 
Caroline it would be doing a long way better than I ever 
thought he would be able to do, and he’s a fool if he don’t.” 

Mr. Bill seemed flattered by the impression he had made 
upon Miss Caroline, and was as polite as a Dukesborough 
beau knew how to be. We used to hear of other atten- 
tions which he paid to her. He went to her house several 
times ; but as he was a great visitor generally, we did not 
think a great deal of that. Allen did not have much fancy 
for Mr. Bill, and especially for his town airs ; yet he loved 
his sister dearly, and he tolerated her visitor for her sake. 
So, whenever Mr. Bill would come to the house, Allen 
would treat him hospitably, and on his leaving would in- 
vite him in his dry way to come again whenever it was 
convenient. 

The Thigpens were quite friendly with the Acrys ; and 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


169 

the two young ladies frequently visited each other, and 
sometimes stayed as long as two or three days. 

Mr. Bill had never quite relinquished his preference for 
Betsy Ann, though since the affair at Mr. Lorriby’s he had 
had almost no hope. The growing intimacy between the 
two ladies made another inducement for him to cultivate 
the society of Miss Thigpen. But for Betsy Ann, Mr. Bill 
would have been inclined the more to make serious pro- 
posals to Caroline. His mother, who had begun to see that 
his mercantile career was not promising of great results, 
and who was anxious for him to come back home, thought 
that it was best for him to marry ; and she very decidedly 
preferred Caroline to all other young ladies of her acquaint- 
ance, and she used to urge her son to go right along, court 
her, marry her, and bring her right straight home. Mr. 
Bill had nearly made up his mind, and would have gone 
on, probably, but for the fact that the more attentive he 
became to Caroline, the more gracious to him Betsy Ann 
grew to be. He finally began to reflect upon this change 
in the latter’s deportment, and was delighted to be able to 
attribute it to jealousy. So he began to enjoy a little sharp 
practice upon the two ladies, and pleased himself with the 
idea that something important was to come out of it. 

One day, as we were riding home from church, I said to 
him that we had heard how he had been going lately to the 
Thigpens’. We had had but little to say throughout the 
ride, for old Molly had worried him with her prancings, 
and there had been no lady before whom he could exhibit 
his dexterity in riding. He declared for the fiftieth time 
that he would sell her, dinged if he wouldn’t, ef she weren’t 
such a good brood-mar and plough-nag. 

My remark being made, however, as we were near home, 
and the mare and colt having become more quiet, he got 
at once into a good humor. 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


170 

“ Oh yes, I war than Who told you? Miss Betsy Ann? ” 
Yes ; how did you guess? ” 

Mr. Bill laughed very slyly. What did she say, Philip ? ** 

I answered that I had heard Betsy Ann joking Miss 
Caroline about him, and that the former told me that he 
had been to the Thigpens* over and often. 

How did Betsy Ann ’pear like she liked iny goin’ thar 
so of ting? ” 

I did not remember anything that would have helped me 
to form an opinion on that point. 

Philip,” said he, turning to me and looking extremely 
cunning — Philip, has you ever heerd of a flurrit? ” 

Of what? ” 

‘‘ Of a flurrit : of a — flurritin’ — as it war, with the female 
mind?” 

No.” 

'' Oh, my young fren of the sunny hour! You think 
you know all. Wait till you’re older and have experence 
before you think you understan’ all you sees in this gain- 
sayin’ world. Miss Karline is a very fine young ’oman; 
now ain’t she, Philip? ” 

''Yes, indeed.” 

" Thar it is now! I knowed it. I knowed he think he 
understan’. Oh, my fren,” he said, just as we were about 
to part, " my young fren, when you git to be a man of my 
age, that is, providin’ you don’t keep buried here in the 
country whar a man can’t larn much o’ the ways o’ this 
ontimely old world, you’ll know what I mean by flurritin'. 
And when you do, won’t you see fun! Oh, my gracious 
granny! Oh yes, certing. Miss Karline is a monstous fine 
female! Good-bye, squire.” 

Then the old fellow gave his mare the reins, and she 
went off galloping and whickering after her colt as it was 
dashing furiously down the lane. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


171 


CHAPTER VII. 

The lessons progressed. The young man was proud of 
his ability to teach so fine a young woman as Lucy, and 
she was repaying his work by making rapid progress. She 
had learned the elementary principles of Latin at school, 
and, being uncommonly quick of apprehension, she now 
advanced easily and rapidly. It was only a few weeks be- 
fore she was reading in Virgil. 

They could not fail to be friends now. No other rela- 
tion is so favorable to the growth of friendship between 
two young persons of opposite sexes. We love those on 
whom we depend ; and much more do we love those who 
depend upon us. Lucy grew to be dependent upon Over- 
ton, not only for what she was to learn of a dead, but for 
the development of her being in the lore of its own living 
but hitherto unspoken, language. All untaught as she was 
in the history of life, whom had she that could tell her so 
well of what one like her must soon needs begin to be told ? 
She had always been fond of her studies, but she had never 
before gone to them with such avidity. She had never had 
such a teacher. Besides that he was very handsome and 
thoroughly bred in all social knowledge, he was an ardent 
and earnest teacher. Well acquainted with mythology, 
and with the history and literature of the ancients, it was 
a constant charm to her to listen as he taught her from 
day to day what was to be learned from the works of this 
great poet. He was as fond of speaking as she was of 
listening. It was pleasing to see the gradual approxima- 
tion of these two natures toward each other. It was inex- 
pressibly sweet to feel it. Not that they understood it 


172 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


fully, or could foresee what it was to become. They usu- 
ally had long siftings at recitations ; neither ever grew tired. 
It was never the case that something more could not be 
found to be said about Troy, old Priam, his sons and their 
wives — his daughters, both unhappy, one Cassandra, a 
prophetess, but destined never to be believed ; the other 
Creusa, wife of the half-divine ^neas — and others famous 
as well in Greek as Trojan story. These recitations were 
usually had in the drawing-room on his return from school 
in the afternoons, and the announcement of supper usually 
found them not quite finished. Sometimes, as the season 
advanced, they would sit in the grove, and perhaps the 
young teacher would be a little more ardent as he spoke 
of Ida, and Idalus, and Cythera, and the wandering Delos. 
For the spring was coming on fast, and long before he had 
been accustomed to such things the birds were chirruping 
and building their nests, and trees and shrubs were blos- 
soming, and the evening air was beginning to be sweet to 
breathe and to smell. 

The school went along henceforth with little difficulty. 
People were surprised and somewhat disappointed to find 
how well their children advanced without the stimulus of 
the whip ; indeed, it was soon found that this discipline 
was needed at home less than formerly. This did not 
look exactly right, and some people shook their heads. 
But the teacher was so handsome and gentlemanlike, and 
the children loved him so well and studied so hard, that 
even the oldest seemed to think that they might wait 
awhile and see what it would all come to. 

Brinkly did the best of all. Overton discovered that he 
had a more vigorous understanding than he at first had 
supposed. Under the new regime the boy grew apace in 
all ways. Never did a schoolmaster get better pay, so far 
as it could be made out of a pupiPs love and gratitude. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


173 


than he got in the case of Brinkly. All the rest, even to 
Abel, were proud of being the pupils of one who they did 
not doubt was the most learned and the best of mankind. 

The lessons at the house progressed. It -was now the 
first of April. Overton and Lucy were beginning in the 
afternoons and upon Saturdays to walk together in the 
woods adjoining the mansion. Sometimes with hooks and 
lines they made excursions down the creek for a mile and 
angled for perch. Whenever they went thus far they were 
accompanied by Jack ; often Brinkly would accept their 
invitation to join them. He and Jack were great friends. 
His mother resided within a mile of Mr. Parkinson’s, and, 
notwithstanding their difference, there was that cordial un- 
derstanding between the two families which has ever ob- 
tained in country neighborhoods in Georgia, and which has 
made the poor of that State so superior to those of many of 
the States of the Union. There was ever among these poor 
a sense of dignity that is not always to be seen elsewhere. 
When Mrs. Glisson visited at all (and this was seldom), she 
would come to the Parkinsons as freely as to any place in 
the neighborhood, and she knew that she nowhere would 
meet a better welcome. Brinkly partook of his mother’s 
regard for this family ; and as for Lucy Parkinson, he 
thought her to be as nearly divine as was possible to human 
nature. 

One Saturday morning these four set out together to the 
creek. The day was beautiful. Trees were in full foliage ; 
birds were full of love and song. Lucy, in her gingham 
frock, her buckskin gauntlets, and her wide straw hat 
decked with a green ribbon, was very fair to see. The 
spring had imparted a livelier freshness to her complexion ; 
and as she walked along and talked so joyously, Overton 
thought that he had never seen one so lovely. 

** What a glorious thing it is to be young ! ” said George, 


174 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


as he looked at Jack running to and fro ahead of them, 
shouting and trying to urge Brinkly to a more rapid pace. 

Are you then so old that you can thus praise youth? ** 
said Lucy, smiling ; ‘‘ I thought you were a young man.” 

^‘To be a child, I should have said. See that boy: 
how elastic and joyous! He has ten years that are al- 
ready gone from me.” 

But have they left nothing behind whereby it is good 
to remember them? ” 

Oh yes, indeed! It is a great comfort to think so.” 

Do you like teaching? You seem to.” 

That pleasure has its dependences.” 

They walked on. 

They were now in the midst of the forest ; the branches 
of the trees on either side of the path completely shut out 
the sun's rays. Lucy had doffed her hat, and, tying a 
noose in the string, carried it upon her arm. 

‘'The pleasure of teaching,” resumed Overton, “de- 
pends somewhat upon the person who is taught.” 

“No doubt it is influenced by the docility and capacity 
of the pupil.” 

“ And somewhat, much indeed, upon the pupil's regard 
for the teacher. An honest teacher can never enjoy lead- 
ing a hostile, or even an unwilling, pupil.” 

“ In that respect you must feel fully secure. Your pu- 
pils all regard you as you could desire ; instance Brinkly 
yonder. It would make you vain to know what he thinks 
and says of you.” 

“ I know that Brinkly likes me ; but may not that be 
from contrasting me with Mr. Meadows? ” 

“ Never! Brinkly is too fine a boy to found his attach- 
ments upon mere contrasts. Besides, they all like you.” 

“They all remember Mr. Meadows,” he persisted, 
laughing. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


175 


They have not all known Mr. Meadows.” * 

Who has not? ” 

Why— Jack.” 

And she again put on her hat. 

True,” said Overton, '' there is Jack, and a loving heart 
he has, not only for me, but for all mankind, I believe. 
Yes, I do derive far greater pleasure from my little school 
than I anticipated. Before I came here I was far from 
foreseeing that within four months I should feel such sad- 
ness at the idea of leaving, even at the end of the year.” 

They reached the creek and wandered leisurely down the 
stream, angling a little and talking much, until they came 
to a high bluff thickly covered with laurel. At the bottom 
of this bluff were two ledges of rock, about thirty feet 
apart, overhanging the creek. A narrow path winding 
along the bank through dense shrubbery of various kinds 
led to these ledges. On the first of these George and Lucy 
sat. It was a place to which the latter often resorted in 
the spring and summer. The water was deep, and it eddied 
slowly on the hither side as if it loved to linger in so cool 
and lovely a place. 

A charming spot ! ” exclaimed George. 

“ Is it not? ” she answered. '' I knew you would say 
so. I call it Laurel Hill; but Brinkly and Jack, who 
come here for other purposes than mine, call it Rock 
Hole.” 

Interwoven among the laurel were great numbers of yel- 
low jasmines. Brinkly and Jack had followed the path to 
the farther side of the bluff, from which it could be 
ascended, and, gathering the flowers, brought them down. 
They then seated themselves on the lower ledge of rocks 
and angled. Brinkly quietly regarded from time to time 
Lucy as she wove garlands for his and Jack’s hats. In 
imitation, Overton wove one and fastened it around hers. 

12 


176 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


It might have been done more handsomely, but she did 
not reject it. 

They talked more than they angled, especially Overton, 
about many things; among others, of Daphne, of whom 
these laurel shades reminded him. How Daphne was the 
daughter of the Peneus, and was loved by Apollo. Apollo, 
after the slaughter of the Python, had ridiculed the little 
bow and arrows of Cupid ; the latter in revenge took two 
shafts from his quiver, and with the one sharpened with 
iron he pierced the boastful victor, and with the other 
blunted with lead he shot Daphne. The one created love, 
the other dislike. She fled, and Apollo pursued her to the 
laurel shades. Finding herself about to be overtaken, she 
cried to her father. The river-god heard her and changed 
her form to the laurel, and this was why the laurel was 
made sacred to Apollo. One might well imagine this to 
be the very spot to which she had fled from her lover. 

But Cupid used to do such strange things. 

Lucy looked at the two boys fishing. 

Music, said George, “ would sound sweetly in this 
place, so still and shady. 

She made no answer. 

Have you never sung here ? ” 

Sometimes,’^ she answered, smiling. 

He asked her to sing. 

Do you know ' The Poet’s Sigh ’ ? ” she asked. 

I am familiar with the words, but have never known 
it set to music.” 

She sang it low and clear. When she repeated for the 
last time the refrain — 

** Then here’s to her who long 
Hath waked the poet’s sigh ; 

The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ” — 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


177 


she turned unconsciously to Overton, and her voice trem- 
bled in concluding. He was looking and listening with his 
whole being. 

'' Beautiful,” he said quietly. 

She cast down her eyes. She did not sing any more. 
He did not ask her. She was sitting upon the highest 
promontory of the ledge, with her face looking down the 
stream ; he, a few feet back, reclined against the bluff. 
He made no motion, but sat still, looking at the singer. 
She averted her eyes in the instant of their meeting his, 
cast them down, and curiously contemplated the wreath 
upon her hat. If she had looked a moment more she 
would have shown him how she saw and how she valued 
all that he was thinking. 

It is a delicious thing to feel that we are as those whom 
we are most fond to please would have us to be. It is 
like, and even of a kind with, the consciousness of the 
favor of the Divine Being. Exquisitely sweet to this 
young woman was the feeling of the possession of beauty 
and goodness; sweeter than ever before, because these 
were the charms which had drawn to her this young man’s 
adoration. It was sweet to him, too, to behold the pleas- 
ure which the feeling of that adoration afforded. How 
true what Goethe says, that the first propensity to love in 
young hearts that are uncorrupted by vice is used to as- 
sume a spiritual form, in conformity with the law of our 
nature, which designs that one sex should be awakened by 
the other to the love and appreciation of the best and 
worthiest. 

They had not observed how still and silent Brinkly sat 
upon the rocks below while they were talking; and Jack, 
who had grown tired, was reclining asleep against the 
bluff. Why sat the orphan so still and silent, his fishing- 
rod lying by his side? Was it because a better fortune 


178 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


had not bestowed upon him the goodly gifts which that 
young woman sees and admires in the youth by her side? 
Has he too been building, though far away in secret, a 
little altar whereon, because he could not avoid it, he has 
been placing the offering of all that was ever conceived in 
his simple heart to be possible to him? We cannot say. 
When Lucy called to him and Jack, he rose, descended upon 
the other side of the rocks, knelt down, bathed his face, 
and dried it with his rude handkerchief. There he broke 
down, not rudely, but gently, that little altar ; and when 
he joined Overton and Lucy his brave heart throbbed with 
all the pleasure he could bring himself to feel as he looked 
upon his teacher with a quiet smile of congratulation. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Overton gave a week’s holiday for the purpose of at- 
tending the sessions of the Superior Court. 

As he was returning one afternoon, he reached the cot- 
tage of Mrs. Glisson. Before the gate, hitched to a post, 
stood Lucy Parkinson’s riding-horse, and she was sitting 
with the widow and Brinkly before the door. 

’ Light ! ” said the widow, in a hospitable tone. Brinkly 
w^as already at the gate, and while he tied the horse by the 
side of Lucy’s, which made a great show of delight at his 
fellow’s return, Overton advanced to the house. Lucy 
rose, made a slight readjustment of her dress and hat, and 
gave him her hand. 

We did not expect you quite so soon,” she said. 

The widow was delighted to have these two favonV^i*, as 
she called them, at her house, and in no time she had 
brought from the kitchen a small pine table, spread a clean 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


179 

white cloth, and placed upon it cakes and strawberries and 
cream. 

Now you two jes’ set right down thar and eat ^em. I 
made ’em for you and picked ’em for you : that is, Brinkly 
he done the pickin’. I want you two to have ’em, and 
God bless your two souls and bodies.” 

This was a hearty grace, they thought. 

It might have been because they were happy for having 
met again at the board after several days of separation, or 
they might have been willing to gratify their humble host- 
ess by seeming to enjoy her hospitality. It might have 
been that, both being young and healthy, they had appe- 
tites, and it now being late in the day, they could not see 
why they might not be comforted by what was good when 
it was offered with such cheer. So they ate, The first 
serving was nearly consumed. The hostess, with a huge 
pewter spoon, clean and bright as rubbing could make it, 
piled up the deep saucers again and poured in the rich 
cream. 

Brinkly,” she said, in most hospitable inattention to 
their remonstrances — “ Brinkly, my son, go to the kitchen 
and fetch here that hot cake off the spider.” 

Good old times! when hospitality meant something 
more than formal invitation and an orderly array of silver 
forks, napkins, and finger-bowls ; when it was not a ruinous 
business for a girl to send her plate a second time for what 
she wanted, if it were a slice of meat or even a spoonful of 
greens ; when young ladies, even those in love, could eat 
at dinner-tables with as good appetites as those with which 
they now eat at cupboards and other secret places ; when 
everybody ate as much as was wanted — sometimes, to 
gratify the earnest wish of the hostess, even eating a little 
more. 

Dear old times! when, if people asked people to come 


i8o DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 

to see them, it was a sure sign that they wanted them; 
when people were always at home, if indeed they were 
at home in point of fact ; and if they were not, and yet 
were within hearing of a horn, the blowing of it would 
bring them there. When calls were not considered as 
debts to be paid, which, when paid, transferred the entry 
from the debit to the credit side of the account, thencefor- 
ward excluding further visitations until there was another 
change of entries ; when people visited because they felt 
like it, and would not have gone if they hadn’t; when 
they carried their children and their knitting and spent the 
day, remembering that they derived as much pleasure as they 
imparted in such visitations. 

I met not long ago an old Georgian, something the 
worse, like myself, from time and the war. We had a 
moderate mint- julep, and were sipping along and talking 
to each other of those old times when even the mint 
seemed fresher and more fragrant than now, especially in 
this latitude. We talked of the old-time visits ; how the 
women sat at the house and knitted and sewed, and the 
men sat at the spring where the pig was barbecuing, and 
whittled with their knives, and chatted, and made bows and 
arrows and popguns for the children; and then when 
called up to dinner! When my friend got to talking about 
the chicken-pies we used to have in those days, the old 
fellow cried. I laughed at him a little at first ; but he was 
so feeling when, after finishing his julep and laying down 
the tumbler softly on the ground under the trees where we 
were sitting, he spoke about the sort of crust they had 
then, and the oceans of gravy at the bottom, I cried some 
too. I couldn’t help it. 

Blessed old times! They had their errors and their 
evils. Many of these have been corrected, and others, I 
trust, will be in reasonable time. Would that what were 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


i8i 


some of their greatest goods, the simplicity of ancient man- 
ners and the cordiality of social intercourse, could have 
been found to be not uncongenial with our advancing 
civilization ! 

Overton and Lucy rode home together. 

The evening was delightful. The woods on either side 
of the road were redolent with sweet odors, and the pink 
and white flowers among the abundant shrubbery, contrasted 
with the varying green of the forest trees, were beautiful 
to see. 

''You’ve had a good rest this week,” said Overton. 

"Not a bit ; I have been studying more than usual. I 
have read the whole of the Fourth Book since you have 
been gone.” 

"Indeed! And you have read all about the career of 
Dido, and I was not here to enjoy it with you! That is 
the most interesting of all the books. How did you like the 
Carthaginian Queen? ” 

" I liked her — in some respects very well ; but I think 
she might have expected such a result from — forgetting 
what certainly a higher delicacy would have made her 
remember. But I was deeply interested in her grief and 
her unhappy ending.” 

" It is a pretty episode. As for her want of delicacy, we 
must remember that Cupid was in that case, as in that of 
Phoebus and Daphne, and in those times even the goddesses 
did not afford the best examples in delicacy to women. 

" But for the poet to make her fall in love twice — I did 
not like .that. I suppose, however, he must follow the 
legend.” 

" Yes, in that respect,” answered George ; "but,” he re- 
sumed, smiling, " Virgil took a great liberty with chronol- 
ogy in order to get in the legend. There was once a story 
that the bards indicted Virgil before Apollo for making 


i 82 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Dido fall in love with ^neas two hundred years before she 
was bom, and that Apollo scolded him a little, but par- 
doned him afterward because he was a favorite. You 
will find afterward that her old love for Sichaeus returned, 
and that when ^neas met her in the lower regions she 
would not so much as speak to him, but ran away and 
sought the side of her first love.” 

What strange things there are in those old books! ” said 
Lucy. They had just reached home. 

After supper that night Mr. Parkinson and Overton had 
a long conversation concerning the incidents of the week 
and courts generally. 

That night in their chamber, Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson 
had a little talk. 

'' Susan, that fellow’s right in going to the law, and he 
knows it. A pity! a pity!” 

A pity what? ” she asked. 

“ That he has nothing.” 

“ Nothing of what? ” 

Why, money, my dear.” 

He will make it, no doubt.” 

'' That’s not the thing ; he ought to have it now.” 

Never mind; we can help him, if he should need it, 
until he gets where he will not — that won’t be long. We 
owe it to him for what he has done for Jack.” 

I wish he had money to be able to support himself in 
a rank suitable to his talents and his family. I am satisfied 
now that his mother’s family must have been good. I 
didn’t know them, as I told you ; but I’ve no doubt that 
they were all right. And, indeed, those Overtons would 
not have intermarried with a family beneath themselves. 
I wish, however — of course on his account — that he had 
some means of his own.” 

'' I tell you, darling, he does not need them now ; and 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 183 

will not as long as you are the dear, good, generous old 
fellow that you are.” 

“ Humph!” Mr. Parkinson did not and probably could 
not explain what he meant by this ejaculation ; so he went 
off to sleep. 

The next day in the afternoon the lessons at the house 
were resumed. They must review the story of Dido. That 
is not a story to be read by one’s self. 

'' Queen Dido,” said Lucy, '' was, indeed, a lovely char- 
acter as Virgil represents her ; but in one respect it is very 
imperfect. Can you guess what I mean? ” 

Because she fell in love again after the death of her 
husband? ” 

‘^No; I have been thinking of that. That, indeed, 
would seem impossible, but that I have known some ex- 
cellent women who have done the same thing.” 

Was it, then, that she did so after so short an acquaint- 
ance? ” 

‘^No, not exactly that either,” she answered; and con- 
tinued with some hesitation : '' It was soon, very soon ; 
but I can understand that. Then ^neas was a godlike 
man, and, as you say, Cupid was on hand to inspire. And 
then he was an exile seeking for a home and kingdom. Then 
the queen was surrounded by barbarous and hostile kings, 
and needed, or thought she needed, a man and a hero to 
conduct successfully her city’s relations with strangers. I 
can well understand how such things might happen. But 
that is not what I was thinking of. And you cannot 
guess? ” 

No, unless it was her conduct after the departure of her 
lover.” 

^^Oh no, no, not that! — that was the most natural thing 
of all. It is that she — I hardly know how to express it, 
but she seems to me to have been too ready to let her lover 


184 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


know the state of her feelings, and too ready to presume 
that he was similarly impressed.” 

Oh, she could not fail to know that the Trojan, after 
those years of wandering, would rejoice in the assurance 
of rest and a kingdom, especially when to these was super- 
added such a woman.” 

But the poet should have represented her as waiting for 
a declaration of preference on his part for her, individually 
and especially.” 

She could not fail to know that from the conscious- 
ness of her own perfections. A queen, ruling over a power- 
ful people, young and beautiful, would have no doubt upon 
that point. Besides, you remember that she had said 
nothing to ^neas. We know that she loved him because 
she had confessed to her sister Anna. But he did not know 
it, or was presumed not to know it, until the hour of their 
mutual avowal. Yet would you not admit that in certain 
circumstances the woman might be the first to avow her 
love?” 

She hesitated. 

In the case of sovereigns, where marriages are managed 
generally for the sake of political purposes, I suppose such 
a thing might not be far amiss ; but when it is purely a 
matter of personal regard, I cannot imagine it possible, 
consistent with delicacy.” 

“ In no circumstances? ” 

“ None.” 

They were both silent for several minutes. 

Suppose,” said George at length, that she knew that 
a man loved her with all the strength of his whole being, 
suppose that his love had been so ardent and single that in 
her heart of hearts she had grown to reciprocate it ; then 
suppose that he was so related either to her or to her 
family that he could not, or she knew that he thought he 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 185 

could not, in faith and honor, make that avowal himself — 
then what? 

He turned his deep blue eyes upon her. She knew it, 
although she did not look up for a minute, in which she 
was slowly turning the leaves of the book. Then she sud- 
denly lifted her face to him and answered : 

In such an event I — should think that both should 
wait until that relation was ended.” 

She turned her face away and blushed. Overton felt a 
thrill of pleasure, but he said nothing. He knew he could 
not trust himself to speak in that wise any more now ; and 
he saw that she was frightened. He took the book from 
her hands, and said : 

“Did you ever hear of the trial of fortunes by the Vir- 
gilian Lots? ” 

“ No, indeed ; how is that? ” 

“It is an old fashion, but it was once believed to be in- 
fallible. During the Middle Ages, and even later, Virgil 
was considered to have been a wizard. Kings and com- 
mons consulted him alike. It has been said of Charles the 
First that when he was planning his escape from Caris- 
brooke Castle, he resorted to the Virgilian Lots. The 
way they are tried is this: you make a wish, then open 
casually the book, and the sentence on which your eye first 
falls will give the answer to your wish.” 

“ How curious! ” 

“ Shall we try it? ” 

“I have no objection. You will try first.” 

“ Here goes! ” 

He looked at her for a moment, and, opening the book, 
placed his finger upon the page. 

“ Read it,” he said, without looking at it. It was the 
line in the First Book, running thus : 

Sed magno .^nese mecum teneatur amore.” 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


1 86 

Lucy looked at it for a moment, and then tried to hide 
with her hands the blushes that were deeper than before. 
He glanced at the line. 

It is singular,” he said. Will you try yours? ” 

^'Not now.” 

Then she arose and went to her chamber. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Midsummer. The lessons, both at the schoolhouse and 
the mansion, had been going on well ; and now from the 
former the schoolmaster thought he needed a little rest. 
He was thinking of closing the school quietly for a couple 
of weeks ; but from time immemorial in that section the 
custom had been to hold, at least in midsummer, a public 
examination of the pupils. The parents were so anxious 
upon this point that Mr. Parkinson persuaded Overton to 
yield. 

With what interest, with what awful anxiety that day 
was expected! Boys and girls prepared for it as for an 
epoch that was to absorb the attention of all mankind. As 
for the amount of studying that was done, figures and 
words would be wholly inadequate to calculate and tell 
of it. Yet, if one could believe them, every one was des- 
tined to fail. Betsy Wiggins was going to be scared to 
death. She just knew she was. Mandy Grizzle could tell 
just as well now as after the thing was all over that she was 
going to miss every word that was asked her, even if it was 
to tell what her own blessed name was. As for Mely Jones 
and Henritter Bangs, they were both bent on telling their 
mothers that if they didn’t want to be everlastingly dis- 
graced they had better not come to that schoolhouse on 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


187 


that day. It was a contest between Sam Pate and Bill 
Jones which was going to burst open the widest. The 
probabilities were that, if not on the night before, at least 
on the morning of the awful day, Asa Boatright calmly and 
affectionately would bid the world farewell. Abel made no 
promises nor threats, but we know what a firm fellow he was. 

The day previous to the examination was devoted to 
preparation for the entertainment. The ground in front of 
the schoolhouse was carefully swept by the girls, and an 
arbor of green boughs constructed by the boys. Mr. Par- 
kinson had furnished planks and blocks of wood for the 
seats. The little piazza was to be the stage. Wreaths of 
flowers were hung around its pillars and the posts of the 
arbor. But the great thing of the whole arrangement was 
a floral vignette festooned over the door by Lucy, in 
which, in large letters made of cedar-leaves, were the words 
''Devoted to Learning and Virtue.” 

She had arranged it at home, and availing herself of an 
occasion when all the pupils were out of sight to fix it in its 
place, she called them to see it. In their opinions, never 
had been seen before such a magnificent work of art. 
Some had a dim idea of the design ; others where wholly 
in the dark, and their admiration was the highest. They 
didn’t need to have it explained. They didn’t want it ex- 
plained ; there it was, and let it explain itself. Brinkly did 
indeed attempt to make Sam Pate understand it, but Sam 
had no idea that Brinkly did it justice. 

"Means the schoolhouse!” said Sam indignantly: "it 
means everything, by Jings! ” And he looked and looked, 
and he felt in his soul that those letters, to say the least, 
were the index to all human knowledge. When Abel got 
home that afternoon he tried to give his mother some idea 
of it, but from his account she couldn’t make it out. So 
he told her impatiently to wait and see for herself, and that 


i88 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


he didn’t have no time to bother with nobody nor nothin’ 
that night exceptin’ of his books. 

The great day came. It was sunny, but not too warm. 
The pupils had all come very soon after breakfast. Whoever 
might have liked to see a little crowd of fresh and anxious 
yet happy children, there was the place and then was the 
time. They were mighty serious under the burden of im- 
pending responsibilities, but proud and happy. This was 
the day on which the mysteries of knowledge were to be 
exhibited to their parents and friends. Not only so, but 
there was that glorious inscription which was to fill all be- 
holders with wonder, of the glory of which they were par- 
ticipants, and the mighty meaning of which was known to 
no outsiders. 

They came up early. The boys wore clean copperas- 
dyed pants and brown linen jackets. The girls, in striped 
homespun frocks and checked aprons, with their red cheeks 
and round figures, were types in their way, I tell you. Mely 
Jones was the oldest and the most advanced, and she had 
on a calico which had been proven to have come from 
Augusta. It had not been seen often, but when it had 
been it was noticed. 

Oh, you Mely! you are not so far ahead of Betsy Wig- 
gins that she may not overtake you in a year or two. She 
has no calico ; but look at the buckle in that belt, and say 
if it doesn’t outshine yours! 

And see that flounce of Mandy Grizzle! I want you to 
look at that, and then at that ribbon round the neck of 
Henritter Bangs, which last week, only last week, by fortu- 
nate accident had been bought from a peddler, who pledged 
the word and honor of a gentleman that it had not been 
taken out of the box since he bought it in Philamadelphy. 

''Philadelphia, Henry!” said Mely, who prided herself 
on her geography; "not Philamadelphy.” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 189 

'' No,” maintained Henritter ; they was the very words 
he said now. And he stayed all night at our house ; and he 
had a blue wagon, and streaked and striped wheels ; and he 
had a short-tailed black dog ; and he slept under the wagon ; 
and he wouldn’t let nobody go nigh that wagon ; and he 
whipped our dog Wallis, and Wallis was a heap the big- 
gest ; and pap said he wouldn’t a believed it ; and he said 
that it was the first time he ever knowed Wallis to be 
whipped by ary nother dog ; and ma said that he had the 
prettiest things that she see ary pedler have in a long time ; 
and she actilly made pap buy her a set of knives and forks, 
which pap said that we didn’t need ’em, but ma and the man 
talked around him so fast and good that he couldn’t help 
it ; and then he said that them ribbons come all the way from 
Philamadelphy. Now they was jes’ the very words he said.” 

Mely had to let her alone. 

But where was Abel? All were there except him. He 
was wont to be the most punctual of the punctual. Where 
was he? And now yonder came on a gentleman of about 
his size, and from the direction whence he used to come. 
Nobody had any idea who it was. He walked by the side 
or a little in advance of a woman, whom he held by the 
hand and apparently was trying to tug along faster. He 
was clad in new clothes from head to foot — a green cotton 
frock-coat and nankeen pants striped, actually striped. 
From his head hung backwardly a new straw hat. These 
articles were full large, and left, as they were designed to 
leave, ample room for growing. Shoes? Yes, shoes! and 
if they ain’t rights and lefts! They too were somewhat 
oversized, and the legs of the gentleman in question made 
rather a slim figure as they came out of them. But this 
wasn’t all. Would you believe it? he had on a cravat — a 
bandana cravat — and one side of his collar was sawing his 
ear at every step he took. 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


190 

Who could it be? He almost dragged the lady along, 
who, as she approached, seemed amused at what she 
probably considered unnecessary haste on such a warm 
morning. As he got under the arbor, his eyes alternated 
between the lady and the schoolhouse door. Right up to 
the latter he marched, and, pointing to the inscription, 
cried : 

'' Look-ee thar! Didn’t I tell you so? ” 

That voice could not be mistaken. It was the voice of 
Abel. 

He looked at his mother with an expression almost 
ferocious. He seemed to feel that he had done his duty in 
leading her to the vestibule of the temple of wisdom, but 
that she was too far gone in ignorance to enter in. So, 
leaving her to take care of herself, he pulled off his hat, 
rushed in, and was the first to take his seat. Finding that 
he was yet too early, he rose again after a moment or two, 
walked out into the yard, and, without saying much to any- 
one, directed his observations in turns to the inscription, 
the visitors as they came up, and his own coat and shoes. 

Jack Parkinson, notwithstanding that he was a general 
favorite, yet was the object of a little, only a little, jealousy 
on account of his better clothes. The difference in this 
respect, however, had grown less gradually. Mrs. Parkin- 
son had made this change (and fully with Jack’s consent) 
out of regard for the feelings of people whom she considered 
in all other respects except worldly possessions as good 
as herself. Even on this public occasion Jack had only a 
suit of linen, but cut and fitted so as to make him look fine. 
Abel liked Jack very well; but he was bound to turn him 
down one time. He had been eying him for some time. 
Finally he sidled up to where Jack was standing and talking 
to Brinkly. He then looked alternately at Jack’s clothes 
and his own. He did not speak a word ; but his counte- 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


IQI 


nance, as plainly as could have been done by words, asked : 
“ How do you feel now, my lively lad? ” 

Jack complimented and Brinkly looked benignly upon 
him. How Brinkly had grown! — every way. He was 
taller by much, and his face and form were beginning to 
assume the appearance of manhood. Frequent association 
with his teacher had given him much gentleness of manner. 
Overton admired him more and more, and gloried in in- 
structing him. He had presented Brinkly with a coat of 
bombazine cloth for this occasion, for which his mother 
seemed to think that she and her son ought to work in 
payment for the rest of their lives. 

After Abel had got through with Jack, he looked criti- 
cally and doubtingly at Brinkly’s coat ; then glancing down 
at his own tails, he seemed reassured and strutted off 
again. 

And now the visitors were gathering — some on foot, a 
few old people in gigs, but the most on horseback. Bounc- 
ing girls, some with beaux and some without, rode up on 
spirited horses, and tying them to the limbs of trees, alighted, 
generally without assistance. About two hundred persons 
were present. The patrons of the school had contributed 
to furnish a dinner, and early in the morning Allen Thig- 
pen, who was to superintend the barbecue, announced to 
Mr. Parkinson that all the carcasses which had been put 
down had come and were now in the pit. 

The last visitors to arrive were Miss Thigpen and Miss 
Aery, escorted by Mr. Bill Williams. This gentleman had 
asked for a day’s holiday, and had got it. Mr. Bill seldom 
made a request of that sort of late but it was granted. 
Messrs. Bland & Jones were growing very obliging, it 
seemed, and let him go whenever he pleased. To-day Mr. 
Jones had even lent him his horse to ride. Miss Aery had 
gone the day before to the Thigpens’, partly on a visit, and 


192 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


partly preparatory to attending the examination. Mr. Bill 
had got there early, and was cordially received by the two 
ladies. His attentions since the last time we saw him had 
been divided between them. His mother had urged him 
again and again to go right straight along and ask Miss Kar- 
line to have him, and not come away until she said yes ; and 
then go right straight to work and git ready and git married, 
and quit all that foolishness of keeping of a store. Mr. 
Bill could but admit that things were going wrong there in 
general. The stock was getting wild. Old Molly had 
tried her best to fling him coming from meeting, and even 
while he was riding along with Miss Karline. If it had 
been anybody else but him on top of her she would have flung 
him and probably broke some bones. As for that colt, 
which he were now a mule-colt, he had torn down fences, 
and he actilly believed that same colt would jump over the 
moon providing he wanted to go over on t’other side, and 
old. Molly, in course, would foller straight arfter him. They 
all need him, that’s who they need. 

Still he hesitated. The more attentive he was to Miss 
Karline, the more gracious became Miss Betsy Ann. If 
he lagged at all in his attentions to the former, the latter 
grew a little colder. With all his knowledge of women 
generally, he sometimes doubted if he understood Betsy 
Ann fully. It was only a day or two before the examina- 
tion that Betsy Ann had carried with her own hands a 
counterpane to Mrs. Williams as a present from herself and 
Miss Karline jointly, though Betsy Ann confessed that it 
was mostly the work of Miss Karline. She needn’t have 
done that ; for it was Bonaparte a-crossin’ o’ the Rhine ; 
and, with all her efforts and instructions in that line, Betsy 
Ann could not yet quite get up to Miss Karline in thus 
illustrating that achievement of the illustrious Gaul. Mrs. 
Williams, on receiving the present, had taken upon herself 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


193 


to go into Dukesborough and tell her son that her desires 
was that he should go as straight as possible to Miss Kar- 
line, and not to come away till to such questions as he might 
ask her she should say yes. It wasn’t worth while to be 
fooling any longer ; and if he didn’t strike now while the 
iron was hot, in her opinion it would get cold. 

So Mr. Bill, with a yet uncertain mind, however, went 
to the examination. He was very gay this morning, and 
gotten up uncommonly well. The only extravagance about 
him was a nice little green riding-whip, with a cracker 
twisted of crimson silk. The notice of the crowd was first 
attracted to this by the violence with which, as he walked 
to the arbor, he thrashed the dust from his pants and coat- 
tails. There were smiles and nods at his town ways. Allen 
looked at him with an expression that was not entirely in- 
telligible ; but Allen was devoted, as we have seen, to his 
sister, and was therefore determined to like him as well 
as possible. 

The great floral wreath made an impression far beyond 
all expectation. Lucy, whom everybody considered the 
greatest of her sex, was called upon many times to explain 
its meaning, no one after hearing it appearing to be able 
to give anybody else a satisfactory idea. It was so interest- 
ing, and the fair artist talked so prettily, that those who 
had heard her several times were as eager to hear again as 
new listeners, and as attentive to all subsequent explana- 
tions. One elderly lady who had heard about a dozen, 
after looking through her spectacles in silence for some 
time, turned to Lucy and said : 

Now, is it nately so, or do it jes’ ’pear like? ” 

This was rather a poser. Lucy could not answer readily 
and categorically. She did the best she could, however, 
putting it somewhere between the two. The elderly lady 
merely replied : 


194 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Hit beats me! ” and then gave way to another. 

The two ladies whom Mr. Bill Williams had escorted ex- 
pressed their admiration, and at the same time hinted that 
it was a little beyond them too. But Mr. Bill thought he 
could satisfy them. 

“ You see,” said he, “it is a sign that this here house is a 
school-’ouse, instid of a meetin'-house, or a dwellin’, or a 
cote-house, or a sto’-house, or a — so to speak — blacksmith- 
shop — or any other kind of buildin’ exceptin’ of a school- 
’ouse. Oh yes, they ain’t no doubt that that’s what it is ; 
and it have been done very well — very well indeed. It is 
not altogether as solid as our signboard at the sto’ ; but for 
a school-’ouse it do very well — very well indeed.” And he 
bobbed his head condescendingly. 

Oh yes, indeed, they could understand it about the 
LEARNING ; but they couldn’t, especially Allen, quite com- 
prehend the last part of the inscription. 

“ I sees your de-ficulties,” replied Mr. Bill. He looked 
steadily and even frowningly at the wreath for a moment or 
two, and holding his whip somewhat as if it had been a 
pen, pointed to it, and slowly went through the motions of 
writing the word Virtue. 

“Yes, verter,” he said, as his countenance cleared up; 
“verter: that’s the de-ficulty, is it? Why, verter — you 
understand — it is a female. Yes: that’s it! Which you 
know thar’s both girls and beys in this school, and which 
you know in Dukesborough Mr. Cordy have the boys in 
hisn an’ Miss Wilkins have the girls in hern. Yes, sir; 
verter is the female.” 

The young ladies smiled, and Allen, putting his hands in 
his pockets, walked off to look after the barbecuing. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


195 


CHAPTER X. 

The examinations commenced, and it was good to see 
the results of a reasonable and humane system of instruc- 
tion ; not a parent there who was not proud of his children 
that day. There being but few classes, and the studies 
being simple, every pupil had a fair opportunity for distinc- 
tion in geography, grammar, arithmetic, reading, and spell- 
ing. Problems in arithmetic were done on a blackboard. 
Some long ones would cover a whole board. Sam Pate 
and Asa Boatright did sums in interest which made many 
of the audience imagine they foresaw that these boys were 
destined to become in time great money-lenders. In mul- 
tiplication and division Abel seemed to exhaust numbers. 
Bill Jones did the great horseshoe sum. It was such a big 
job of setting down and rubbing out, and multiplying and 
adding, that Bill got himself white all over with the chalk- 
dust. Bill didn’t care ; this was business. Bill was after 
that great pile of money for the last nail, and when he had 
got it he turned to the audience, shook some of the chalk- 
dust off, and looked as if he were seeking for investments. 
A general murmur of relief and satisfaction went through 
the audience. 

Ef he ain’t broke,” whispered Allen, I be dinged ! 
That’s the last horse that feller’ll buy.” Then Allen said 
seriously that he never had believed that horseshoe sum. 
nohow. 

Oh, in cose,” answered Mr. Bill, I don’t sposen that 
no man, nor no set o’ men, wharsomever they mout a come 
from, ever sot about a-tradin’ for horses in that kind o’ 
style. If I was goin’ to sell old Molly, and which she’s as 


196 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


good a plough-nag as ever hopped over a bush, and a feller 
was to begin talkin’ to me about takin’ of her by the nail, 
I should give him sich a piece o’ my mind as would make 
him go arfter another customer quick. Oh no, they jes’ 
sposens the case, and put it in thar to show what figgers 
will do when you keep on a constant a-pilin’ ’em on top o’ 
one another.” 

Allen again walked off with his hands in his pockets, and 
Betsy Ann slyly laughed as she watched him. 

The girls of the school did splendidly. They talked 
about the countries and the rivers, and mountains and des- 
erts, and oceans and lakes, as if they had crossed them 
over and over again and were ready to do it now, taking 
with them anybody else who might wish to go along with 
them. 

Upon the whole, however, I believe Abel afforded the 
highest entertainment. Abel was such a scraggy little fel- 
low to look at, and had done so poorly at the Goosepond, 
and he had such strange ways, that he was generally con- 
sidered as of very weak understanding. All such notions 
came to an end to-day. 

By way, probably, of giving variety to the exercises, Abel 
answered the questions interrogatively. It was music to 
hear him spell words of eight syllables, and then in a rising 
and pathetic tone sing out UiimtelUgibility? Incomprehensi- 
bility? He could be heard far and wide. Allen was at the 
pit, where, besides superintending his carcasses^ he had been 
wondering what his sister Karline could see in such a man 
as Bill Williams to like him. When he heard Abel’s 
screams he was in the act of turning over a pig. He raised 
himself up, and looking toward the stage, he asked of a 
bystander : 

Who in the name of Jee-roozelum is that? ” 

Don’t you know who that is, Allen? ” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


197 


Allen looked fixedly at the speller. 

No, dinged if I do! I never seed him befo’.” 

'' Why, it’s Abel Kitchens.” 

‘^Who?” 

‘^Abel Kitchens.” 

Without saying more, he advanced several steps toward 
the house, and listened with unmixed delight until Abel 
had spelled himself out of breath. He then turned and 
remarked : 

I never should a knowed him with them clo’es if you 
hadn’t a told me. And if I hadn’t a seed it myself, I 
never should a b’lieved he could a spelt them words in that 
kind o’ style.” 

Abel did as well in geography, with the exception of one 
temporary mistake. When asked by whom Pennsylvania 
was settled, he hesitated a moment, and then answered : 

‘‘ By the English — ah — Earthquakes? ” 

The audience seemed a little uneasy. Overton glanced 
at Lucy, who had her handkerchief to her mouth, while her 
eyes were suffused with tears of laughter ; so he bit his lips 
and coughed slightly. Mandy Grizzle, who was Abel’s 
classmate, turned and looked upon him with horror. Abel 
grinned, frowned, and catching at his coat-tails with his 
hands, and rocking himself right and left for a moment, 
answered rightly in the same tone : 

By the English Quakers? ” 

Afterward Abel shut up Asa Boatright, who was laugh- 
ing at his mistake, by insisting that there weren’t no sich a 
mighty difference between ’em, anyhow, and asking Asa if 
he knowed what that was. 

Bill Jones was the leader in geography. He was heard 
to boast that you give him a plenty of money, and insure 
his not getting drowned nor murdered nor eat up by wild 
beasts and other animals, he could find his way plump into 


198 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


the middle of Africa. It wasn^t worth while to try to lose 
Bill Jones anywhere on the top of the ground. 

During the examination of the classes the audience, with 
few exceptions, kept their seats. Toward the last the 
smell of the barbecue was becoming very sweet, and one 
could notice occasionally a nose turned toward the pit, 
and a pair of lips giving a subdued smack. There re- 
mained only the speaking, and the schoolmaster announced 
that it would be postponed until after the dinner, to which 
all were cordially invited. So they arose. And oh, what 
congratulations! Especially to the girls, for they were 
through with their work, and it was a safe business. Now 
that the excitement was over they did look exhausted, and 
yet so calm, so serenely triumphant! Mely Jones espe- 
cially had done so much, had answered so many questions, 
and been put through such a searching course, that she 
seemed to feel that no reasonable person could expect her 
to recover herself in some time. After the rest had risen 
she sat with her head resting upon her mother’s shoulder, 
her long hair hanging down at full length, and her pretty 
face and languid eyes indicating that though she had con- 
quered, yet that such a victory was more expensive than 
most people were aware of. Oh, you Mely! 

The dinner was capital ; pig, lamb, kid, chicken, goose, all 
sorts of vegetables, pies, tarts, custards. Allen got enough 
compliments for the barbecue to make anybody else very 
vain. But Allen merely remarked that he should not 
have undertook it if he hadn’t knowed what he was about. 
Give him the right sort of carcasses^ good oak-bark, and a 
plenty of pepper, vinegar, and salt, and he would be mon- 
stous apt to have it right; that is, providin’ the people 
didn’t git hungry too soon and begin to hurry him up. 

Mr. Bill was very gay. Notwithstanding that he had to 
serve two ladies at the table, he did not part from his riding- 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


199 


whip ; with singular dexterity he fastened it under his left 
arm, and as he turned here and there the silk cracker 
played all sorts of tricks, occasionally tickling Miss Aery’s 
nose to such a degree that she would laugh and chide him 
so sweetly that it would soon be tickling her again. Miss 
Karline looked uncommonly well to-day. Betsy Ann 
called Mr. Bill’s attention to the fact, and with great gen- 
erosity gave it as her opinion that she was the finest girl in 
all her acquaintance. Mr. Bill smiled and said nothing in 
answer to such remarks, yet he thought to himself that he 
had never seen Miss Karline look so well. 

He congratulated everybody who had any special in- 
terest in the examination. Who knowed but that some of 
them boys, providin’, in cose, they lived and kept goin’ 
in the same in which they was a-startin’, mout live to be 
big men in Dukesborough or some other big place. Who 
knowed? 

Lucy went about from one to another of the elderly 
ladies and helped them from the various dishes. What 
little distinctions of honor were made, were in favor of the 
mothers of the children. The pupils were the main attend- 
ants, and boys and girls were liberal to a degree that 
approached prodigality. Abel’s attentions were confined 
mostly to his mother. He piled the good things upon her 
plate so that she had to stop him and inquire if he expected 
her to eat everything on the table, and all at once at that. 
But Abel had an object : he wanted to practice his speech 
one more time. So, having served his mother, he gathered 
in his hands a big piece of pie, and, eating rapidly as he 
went, rushed into the woods, and in quite an elevated tone 
put a number of interrogatories to a certain red-oak tree to 
which he resorted. 

The dinner being over, the ladies repaired to the arbor 
again, and the men stood without in knots of eight or ten, 


200 


DTJKESBOROUGH TALES. 


and discussed the weather and their crops. Every one in- 
sisted that he had received less rain than any of his neigh- 
bors. Whenever a rain was proven upon one, he insisted 
either that it was not enough to wet a pocket-handker- 
chief, or that it was so much as to set out the grass again 
that had just been chopped, and that it fell so hard as to 
wash his plantation clean away besides. I have often no- 
ticed during all my life that one of the most difficult things 
has been to make a farmer admit that he had had a season- 
able rain upon his crop. 

But the bell was rung in the midst of such disputes, and 
all repaired at once to the arbor. 

Samuel Pate! 

Mr. Pate was not by nature a great orator ; but art and 
exercise enabled him to show off to considerable advantage. 
Hearty applause followed, for several of the boys had 
hinted that a little of that would have an encouraging 
effect. A yet greater share fell to Mr. Boatright, who fol- 
lowed. Mr. Jones had expected to carry everything before 
him, or at least lead it very closely up behind him. Sink- 
ing or swimming, living or dying, surviving or perishing, he 
was for the Declaration ; and he looked as if he meant 
what he said. There was not a man there who felt like 
controverting his position when, in conclusion, he an- 
nounced in thundering tones, In-derpendence now, and 
In-derpendence forever!” Jack Parkinson did the poetry. 
It sounded very genteel ; but there was not much room 
for spreading, as Bill called it. 

But Abel! That was the speech that stirred the crowd 
and made everybody, as it were, feel like changing seats. 
His piece was a famous one in the old books, yet familiar 
to us all. Abel adhered to the interrogative manner which 
his teacher had labored in vain to correct. He inquired of 
the gentlemen and ladies present if they were not Ameri- 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


201 


cans, and if they did not have a country vast in extent, and 
embracing all the varieties of the most salubrious climes. 
He went on further to ask if they were held not by charters, 
and propounded various interrogatories of that sort. His 
little voice screamed in a way which it was a wonder to 
hear. His gesticulation was equally remarkable. Occa- 
sionally he would rise on tiptoe and stretch out both arms ; 
then his coat-tails would expand themselves and almost 
become separated in his rear. His shoes, however, re- 
mained wholly unexcited, refusing to follow his heels, but 
waiting patiently for their return. When he had asked 
questions enough to have taken the most of his audience 
weeks and weeks to answer, he retired, and blowed and 
perspired as if he had been running a mile. The surprise 
and pleasure that he had been inspiring all day came now 
to a climax. Everybody clapped their hands and rapped 
the benches and laughed with glee. Allen Thigpen, who had 
been standing at the outskirts, beat with a big stick one of 
the posts with such violence as to shake the whole arbor. 
Allen afterward passed his word and honor that never in 
all his bom days had he ever heerd anything so onexpected. 

Becase, you see,” said he, '' I knowed him at the Goose- 
pond. By the time he quit thar he didn’t ’pear like he 
have any more sense than a biled egg. But to-day ! WTy, 
it come on me to such a pitch as farly made the goose- 
bumps rise all over me. That spellin’ this mornin’ first 
started me to thinkin’ ; but the speakin’, it finished me. 
When he said ^ Hell not by chotters,’ dinged if I didn’t 
think he was a-cussin’ ! ” 

The exercises were closed by Brinkly Glisson. His 
speech was one that had been composed by Overton for 
the occasion. Not loud and violent like Abel and some 
of the rest, he spoke easily, naturally, and to the point. 
Everybody listened eagerly as he declaimed on the value of 


202 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


education, and the greater value of honor, and truth, and 
courage. Warming more and more as he proceeded, he 
made really a fine ending. His mother had been filling up 
all day. She ate almost nothing at dinner, telling Lucy, 
who pressed many nice things upon her, that she could 
not eat until Brinkly got through. While he was speaking 
she did not look at him except by stolen glances, fearing 
that she might put him out. When he had finished, and 
the whole air was rent, and the woods resounded with ap- 
plause, as well for Brinkly as in general commendation of 
the whole exercises, her mother’s heart could repress its 
emotions no longer, and she wept those tears of joy and 
pride that are so sweet to the lowly. The neighbors con- 
gratulated her, but she could weep only the more. Allen 
squeezed her hand the hardest of all, and he cried like a 
child when she hugged him. 

Ding it all!” said Allen, but he blubbered so that he 
couldn’t make it out, and so, breaking off from the widow, 
he hugged Brinkly, and wept on his neck. I knowed it 
was in you,” he said, as the tears ran from his eyes, '' if — 
if it only could be fotch out.” 

As soon as the audience arose to disperse, the widow 
went to Overton and humbly took his hand. 

It is you who done it all. If it hadn’t been for you the 
child might have been ruined. Oh, the goodness of the 
Lord that brought from so far away off yonder such a 
friend to me and my child 1 ” 

This was all she could say : a poor little speech ; and 
even in that her greatest thanks were carried beyond him- 
self. Yet, though he lived to make a high career, and to 
receive much of eloquent praise, it never imparted a pleasure 
superior to that he felt as that poor woman held his hand, 
and he knew what she felt but could not express. 

Although there was to be but a couple of weeks’ holiday, 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


203 


yet the pupils took most affectionate leave of their teacher, 
and not one failed to look with pleasure to the reunion. 
While Brinkly went for his mother’s horse, she asked Lucy 
in a low tone : 

Ain’t he glorious? ” 

Who? Brinkly? Yes, that he is.” 

‘‘ Oh, you know who I mean : that man yonder.” 

'' Mr. Overton? Yes, he’ll do pretty well.” 

'' And now, honey, you listen to me. Don’t you let that 
chance slip. Don’t you.” 

As Lucy held the stirrup for her, after Brinkly had set 
her upon the horse, she bent down and whispered in her 
ear : 

Him and you was made for one another.” 

The girl pretended not to hear, and the widow, followed 
by her son on foot, rode away. 

The last to leave were Mr. Bill and his party. They had 
to wait for Allen, who lingered in order to see that all the 
dinner- vessels were sent to their owners. On the way 
home Mr. Bill, as long as they all rode together, made 
sundry comments upon the exercises. They were for the 
most part commendatory; yit Mr. Cordy’s school in 
Dukesborough were certainly ahead of Chestnut Grove. 
Ef Mr. Overton should live and keep at it awhile longer, 
he mout some time move into Dukesborough and keep 
school thar, arfter Mr. Cordy give up ; in cose he had 
never heard of Mr. Cordy’s givin’ up, but he did know that 
somehow schoolmarsters, as a giner’l thing, w^re a movin’ 
kind o’ people, and never stayed long in one partickler place, 
and that made him say what he did. But still, it weren’t 
no business of hisn, and he merrily made the remark be- 
case, from all he could see, he thought well of the young 
man and hoped that he would do well. 

Allen and Betsy Ann fell back a little, and Mr. Bill and 


204 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Miss Karline rode on together. Mr. Bill was much flattered 
by Miss Karline’s regard, as well he might be. Whenever 
he found himself alone with her of late he felt that he would 
do reasonably well to get her, and it was only the increased 
graciousness of Betsy Ann that hitherto had prevented his 
addressing the former. Betsy Ann’s remark at the exami- 
nation had the double effect of stimulating his feelings to- 
ward Miss Karline, and of raising the suspicion that she 
herself did not mean that her own deportment toward him 
should be considered in the light in which he had been re- 
garding it. So, as he rode along, he was decidedly more 
demonstrative to Miss Karline than he had yet been. He 
delivered his mother’s thanks for the counterpane, and told 
how anxious she was that he should settle himself. 

And, indeed, it look like a man of my age ought to 
settle hisself ; but sich it is, a man can’t settle hisself by 
hisself.” 

How archly and mischievously he did look at Miss Kar- 
line! 

‘^Ahem! of course not,” said Miss Karline. Still, I 
don’t know so well about that. Of course it’s not for me 
to speak.” 

Mr. Bill insisted that he believed his mother was right, and 
that he ought to leave off the vanities of a vain and fool- 
ish world ; and, to tell the truth, a man wasn’t going, and 
wasn’t expected to be going, to do that excepting he was to 
git married and have a wife to help him, and he declared 
that he would like to have Miss Karline’s opinions upon 
the subject. 

Miss Karline answered that if he wanted her opinions 
certain and in earnest, and if he needed her opinions, of 
course he should have them. 

Now Bill said that he did want ’em, and felt like in all 
the circumstances he stood in need of ’em. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


205 


Then Miss Karline said that as for herself, provided she 
knew herself, she desired to fool no person, nor to trifle with 
no person’s feelings, nor to keep people a-waiting for answers 
to polite and gentlemany questions. Mr. Williams was a 
person whom she could but have a great respect for ; and 
as for his mother, she loved her almost like her own blessed 
mother that was dead and gone. As Mr. Williams had 
asked her opinions on that partickler subject, and had ever 
acted in such a gentlemany way, she would at once give him 
her answer. She always had liked him, but never, never 
in this blessed world should he have knew it from her lips 
if he had not first asked her opinions, and that in such a 
gentlemany way. 

They were now near the house. Mr. Bill smiled, and 
looked back at Allen and Betsy Ann, who were now riding 
fast. He gave his whip to Miss Karline, who gave her horse 
a cut, and they galloped to the gate. As he assisted her to 
dismount he took the liberty to squeeze her hand, and, as he 
had acted in such a gentlemany way. Miss Karline quietly 
but^firmly returned the pressure. 

Allen looked at them closely when he came up. His 
sister’s face assured him, he thought, that matters were 
settled, and he therefore treated Mr. Bill with increased 
cordiality. Mr. Bill was obliged to go on to Dukesborough 
that evening. When he was about to start, all shook hands 
with him, and Betsy Ann said that she was always glad to 
see him. He opened his eyes a little at this remark, but 
only said good-bye, and then took his leave. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The vacation was spent by George Overton at Chestnut 
Grove. He needed no further recreation than what would 


2o6 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


be afforded by the more constant association of Lucy 
Parkinson. The lessons to her were not discontinued. 
The new term opened with an increased number of pupils, 
and everything went on as usual. It was now near Octo- 
ber, in which month he was to be admitted to the bar, and 
would then give up the school. 

Thus far no word of avowed love had been spoken. 
The young man had a long-continued struggle between in- 
clination and a sense of duty. An inmate in Mr. Parkin- 
son's family, intrusted with the education of his son, and, 
to some extent, with that of his daughter, the very facilities 
which he had for engaging her affections prompted him the 
more to feel as if he ought to abstain from any positive 
avowal until he should be ready to go away. He believed 
that both her parents had noticed his attachment, and he 
hoped that the mother would favor the suit ; he feared that 
the father would oppose it. The former had grown more and 
more cordial from the beginning ; the latter was simply not 
less so, and his general deportment had been such that 
Overton felt as if he regarded their connection as a mere 
matter of business, and that when it should be ended he 
would be ready to form a similar arrangement with some- 
body else. If Overton had been a man to calculate upon 
other influences in his intended suit besides his own per- 
sonal character and exertions, he would have set some value 
upon the regard which Jack had for him, a regard which 
had grown into a most ardent affection. 

When he first was aware of a growing attachment to 
Lucy, he had resolved, even if he should ever come to sus- 
pect that his passion was reciprocated, to abstain from all 
mention of it while he should remain in the family, and, 
indeed, to abstain from proposing marriage until he should 
become established in his profession and be able to main- 
tain himself well. Although his father's estate had not been 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


207 


yet settled, he looked for no means from that quarter, and 
expected that the law would be his only dependence for a 
living. 

He thought he had been keeping his resolution. How 
prone is youth to persuade itself that it faithfully pays its 
vows, when sometimes, unconsciously to itself, it can but 
keep back a part! In all this time he had never said he 
loved ; yet how many times, when alone with her, it was 
hard for him not to tell her all he felt. Many times he 
would look upon her and his voice would take on a trem- 
bling and tenderness which were quite as expressive as any 
words would have been. Though no expressions of love 
had been spoken, each knew what the other felt. 

The term was near its end, and seemed this time to be 
destined to close as happily as before, with the exception 
only that the teacher so well loved was about to leave for 
another field of endeavor. Jack Parkinson had become so 
fond of him that, whenever the subject of the latter’s 
leaving was mentioned, his eyes would fill with tears. One 
day he went to his mother and laid his head in her lap, and 
asked her why it was that Mr. Overton must go away. 
She put down her work and smoothed and stroked his yel- 
low hair, and they talked much with each other about how 
kind Mr. Overton had been, and what a great service he 
had rendered Jack, and how they would always be his 
friends, and many such things, and the mother shed as many 
tears as the child. The next day Mr. Parkinson left home 
for a visit of a few days to Augusta, and that evening when 
Jack had come from school he went to his mother, and, 
laying his head in her lap again, told her that he did not 
feel well. She saw that he had some fever, and she led 
him to his bed. 

I can never think without sadness of those seasons of 
bilious fever consequent upon too reckless destruction of 

14 


2o8 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


forests. The country physicians of those days, with few ex- 
ceptions, seemed to have made themselves acquainted with 
only two great remedies : blood-letting and calomel. Our 
laws then allowed to all young men, however unqualified 
either by general culture or in native talents, after having 
read through a few books of medical science in a doctor’s 
office, to appear before a committee of physicians in Mil- 
ledgeville, who, after a nominal examination, might give 
them certificates of proficiency and licenses to distribute 
their knowledge among the sick and the afflicted, and, in 
return for such distribution, to charge, and when disputed 
either by the patients themselves or their representatives 
after they were dead, to sue for and collect their fees and 
rewards. The qualifications mainly requisite for passing 
before the committee were the facile use of the lancet, the 
determination to refuse cold water to those who were sick 
with fever, and to give calomel in unlimited quantities. 

It has always been a matter of wonder with me why 
many more persons were not killed by that old method of 
treatment. But I remember that men were stouter and 
stronger then than now; they lived more simply, and 
worked and exercised more heartily. Then I have known 
of those who cheated physicians and got well in spite of 
them, and in ways unknown to them. 

I knew of two young men, brothers, great, robust, brave, 
hard-working fellows. They were both sick of bilious fever. 
From the first day they grew worse, and the fever racked 
them sore. Consumed with thirst, they begged for water, and 
a little must be given to them while they had strength. But 
on the sixth day they were so weak that it was considered safe 
to deny them altogether. They lay in the same room, and the 
water-pail was at the door. Oh, how they had begged that 
day for water, and, when constantly refused, how they had 
watched the water-pail! Their attendant left the room in 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


209 


which they were lying for a few minutes. No sooner was 
she gone than, exerting their utmost strength, they crawled 
from their beds to the pail, and the stronger first assisted 
his brother to drink, and he drank to his fill ; then, as the 
other was about to do the same, the attendant, returning, 
gave a scream, and, rushing to him, carried him back. 
Two days afterward he died, and the other was convales- 
cent. When he got well he swore a great oath that he 
would never again take medicine from a doctor ; and he 
kept his word. 

Ah me ! what survivor of those times remembers them 
well, remembers the long, weary days when, hot and 
thirsty, he saw the well-bucket with newly drawn water set 
out in the sun, from which, when it had lost its coolness, he 
was permitted (with what a show of kindness in the midst 
of anxious remonstrance ! ) to moisten with a spoonful his 
parched tongue and lips. 

The long, weary nights, longer and wearier than the 
days, because, in their deep, solemn stillness there was but 
a mockery of the rest for which he longed. 

When sometimes dreams would come over him — those 
strange dreams that bring to the unhappy the things they 
most desire ; and they would lift him from his couch of fire 
and bear him away to a well-known spring of water, cold 
and crystal, and he would see it bursting out from the hill- 
side, and hear it and feel it gurgling in his throat. 

Then when he would awake and feel — oh, what anguish 
he would feel when he would awake and find them dreams ! 

And he, fortunate survivor, has he not seen others suffer 
worse things than these? Yes, many times has he watched 
when, after long, weary days and nights, with their alterna- 
tions of painful realities and blissful dreams, when the sick 
man’s body was fast yielding to the ravages of fever, and 
the mind, partaking of its weakness, was growing unsteady, 


210 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


he would beg in childish and piteous tones for water, for 
water! 

When at last all hope of life was past, and the physician, 
good man, now thought it could do no harm, and the rag- 
mop dipped in water was inserted into his mouth, he would 
champ it and champ it with feeble eagerness, till death 
came at last, and cooled the fever and ended or fulfilled 
the dreams! 

When he remembers these, let him thank God that this 
one cruel folly is passed away ; that though he may yet see 
death, and must suffer it, he may not see it nor suffer it 
amid scenes like these. 

When Dr. Wilson first saw Jack he pronounced the case 
difficult, and a neighbor was dispatched to Augusta to 
hasten Mr. Parkinson’s return. Dr. Wilson was consider- 
ably in advance of the country physicians of the times. 
Carefully and tenderly he attended the case, and watched 
with unceasing anxiety the development of the disease. 
Yet, conservative and cautious, he administered medicine 
in quantities which, while it would have been considered by 
his contemporaries as too insignificant to be capable of pro- 
ducing any effect good or evil, would be regarded with 
alarm by any intelligent physician of this generation. 

Jack lay on his bed and made no complaint. He was 
neither cheerful nor very sad; he was only silent and 
thoughtful. His mother was intensely anxious, and the 
more so on account of the absence of her husband. But 
she would try to rally him on his thoughtfulness, and would 
speak cheerily on what was to be done next week when 
he should be well again. But Jack remained silent and 
thoughtful, and seemed to feel little interest in what they 
were going to do for him next week. The doctor was 
distressed every morning to find that he had not improved 
from the day before. Overton was devoted to him, and 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


2 1 I 


Mrs. Parkinson and Lucy were with him all the time. On 
the night of the third day his condition appeared to be im- 
proved, and his mother at midnight retired to rest, leaving 
Overton and Lucy to Thatch. She gave him her blessing, 
congratulated him on his improvement, and said she knew 
— oh yes, she knew he was going to be bright in the morn- 
ing, when father would be at home. 

And Jack did rest and sleep so well that Overton, on 
Lucy’s insisting that he should do so, retired to his own 
chamber, to be called up if necessary. Jack slept away. 
His face became serene and happy. Sweet dreams had 
come to him. His grandfather and grandmother and little 
Jane had visited him in his dreams. He thought they 
took him by the hand and were leading him along, point- 
ing to prospects which, though he could not plainly see them, 
were exceeding beautiful. They did not speak, but they 
led him along into sights which may not be written or told. 

Then he awoke and looked strangely at his sister. 

How well you have slept, dear! ” 

^'Have I not been away?.” he asked. 

No, you have been sleeping, and you are so much 
better.” 

Jack sighed, and said he wanted to see his mother. But 
his mother had already heard him and was in the room. 
She felt his brow, and talked as such mothers know how 
to talk to their sick children. Then he told her whom he 
had seen and what they had done to him. How he did 
talk! He talked of many things, and at last of his teacher. 
He told his mother that none of them knew how kind Mr. 
Overton had been to him, nor how much he was loved by 
him. He said, and with great earnestness, that he wanted 
him never to go away, never to leave his father and his 
mother and his sister. He knew, he said, that Mr. Over- 
ton did not desire to go away ; for he had asked him, and 


212 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


he had answered that he would rather live there than any- 
where else in the whole world. 

Lucy leaned her head upon the bed. 

Overton, overhearing the continued talking, came down- 
stairs into the room and approached softly. As the boy con- 
tinued to talk Mrs. Parkinson looked up toward him. The 
tears were running down her cheeks, and she looked from 
him to Lucy. Then Overton went to Lucy and took her 
hand, and lifted her up. She arose, trembling through her 
whole frame. 

'^Let it be so,’’ he said — ^^in God’s name let it be so! 

♦ 

Only He knows how much I desire it.” 

Lucy looked at Jack and saw how he was smiling. Then 
she laid her head upon Overton’s shoulder, and he, putting 
his arms around her, drew her to his breast. He led her 
around to the other side where Mrs. Parkinson was sit- 
ting, and they knelt down by the bed, and Jack called him 
his brother, and the mother called him her son, and then 
all but Jack wept afresh. 

The next morning the sun rose brightly, and Jack looked 
out upon it with a smile ; but they saw that his face was 
more pale than yesterday. Mr. Parkinson returned shortly 
afterward, having ridden all night. He was terrified be- 
yond expression by his son’s condition. 

The day wore away, and night again came on. In the 
early part of it Jack lay with his eyes closed, his hands 
folded upon his breast, and his lips occasionally murmured 
a text of the Holy Scriptures. Midnight was passed. 
Jack asked for a chapter to be read to him, the fourteenth 
of St. John. Nobody could do it except Overton. Mr. 
Parkinson had not been able to remain in the room since 
his return but for a few minutes at a time ; Mrs. Parkinson 
and Lucy had no voice for reading. So Overton read the 
chapter. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


213 


Just then his father came in. Jack made signs to him 
and Overton to approach him. When they did so, he 
joined their hands. 

That will do,” he said. 

He then gave his hand to his mother and bade her hold 
it. As the sun rose, he smiled once more, and whispered : 

Even so — come — Lord — ^Jesus.” 

^'Amen!” said Overton, closing his eyes. 

The neighbors were assembled to the funeral. The 
rooms not being capacious enough to contain them all, they 
were seated upon the piazza, and upon benches on the 
ground before the door. The body had been removed into 
the hall, and the preacher stood in the door. 

Mr. Sanford was an old man whose life from early 
manhood had been spent in the Christian ministry. He 
was not deeply learned in the schools ; but a long habit of 
public speaking, added to a blameless life spent in the study 
of the Scriptures, and in teaching and practicing their pre- 
cepts, had conspired to make him a useful, and at times an 
eloquent, preacher. He was tall and thin and pale, and 
his hair was long and almost wholly white. He was uni- 
versally revered, and was especially dear to this family. 
He had always loved Jack with peculiar affection. Before 
he rose he had been leaning his head upon his hands rest- 
ing on the little table before him, and they saw that he 
had been weeping, for he had just spent an hour alone 
with Mrs. Parkinson. 

He began with general observations upon the shortness 
of life and the insufficiency of human affairs to satisfy our 
best desires. Heathen nations, especially those that had 
been enlightened, were accustomed to have as serious and 
just reflections upon this subject as we. Like us, they be- 
lieved in the immortality of the soul, and the necessity of 
making preparation for a higher life by a purgation from 


214 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


earthly impurities. But at the coming of the Messiah 
old things were to pass away, and all things were to 
become new. Jesus Christ, the Righteous, born in the 
flesh, after living a life of poverty, and enduring all the 
ills that flesh is heir to, even the temptations to the com- 
mission of sin, at last suffered death in the most painful 
and disgraceful of all forms known to the cruel and re- 
morseless. And then His followers, first chosen from among 
the simple, were slow to understand the fullness of that mis- 
sion. Not able to see beyond the veil, they mourned for 
their departed Friend, whom in His last extremity they had 
been driven in terror to desert. Full of pious grief, the 
women, on the first day of the week, after having rested 
the Sabbath, according to the commandment, repaired to 
the grave with the spices which they had prepared. 

‘^And they entered in, and found not the body of Jesus. 

^^And it came to pass, as they were much perplexed there- 
about, behold two men stood by them in shining garments. 

^'And as they were afraid and bowed down their faces 
to the earth, they said unto them. Why seek ye the living 
among the dead? 

He is not here, but is risen. Remember what He spake 
unto you when He was yet in Galilee, 

‘^Saying, the Son of Man must be delivered into the 
hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day 
rise again. 

^'And they remembered His words. 

The preacher dwelt at some length upon the method of 
salvation, and then he spoke briefly of Jack ; and when he 
did no eye was without tears, for who does not love to 
hear the dead praised, especially the early dead? 

And now,” he said, my friends, look upon the body of 
that boy, and look upon me. Does it seem strange to you that 
he should be there, while I am standing here? — I, a broken, 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


215 


aged man, full of years and infirmities. One week ago ! sup- 
pose you had been compelled to choose between him and me 
for the chances of life — him, the young plant, strong, bloom- 
ing in beauty, with the full promise of goodly fruit ; me, the 
old and withered tree, its blossoms and leaves fallen to re- 
turn no more, and the time of its poor fruiting so long past 
as to be forgotten. It seems strange to you ; it seems strange 
to me. Old as I am, having felt such afflictions as this 
and seen them so often fall upon others, yet the deaths of 
those who are so young and so fair as that boy was yet 
seem strange to me, until I remember this text and study 
the lessons it teaches. Strange indeed it would be but for 
the assurance of resurrection to another life, compared with 
which this one passes swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. We 
shall soon repair to the grave in order to deposit this body 
from which the beauty and the life have departed ; but he 
will not be there : he is risen. The great King of kings, 
in making up His jewels, selects from all conditions. If 
we cannot refrain from weeping that one so young and 
gifted is taken from among us, let it be our consolation 
that he was ready and willing to depart.” 

Then he raised his hands and eyes toward heaven, and 
prayed that all there, every one in his appointed time, might 
die the death of the righteous. 

The old man sat down for a moment, and leaned his 
head upon the table again. After a few moments he rose, 
went to the body, uncovered the face, and stood at the 
head until all present had come, as was the custom, and 
taken their last look. As they gazed upon the marble feat- 
ures, so still and peaceful, some sighed, while others smiled, 
but all were weeping. When it was over, It is better to 
go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting,” 
said the preacher, as he covered the face again. 

Well, well, I do not know why I have dwelt so long upon 


2i6 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


these last-mentioned scenes, so different from the sportive 
ones which I have been describing, unless it is because those 
old-time ceremonies over the dead seemed always to me so 
becoming, and because in these latter times they are grow- 
ing into disuse. In addition to the pain I feel at the death 
of those who were dear to me, and who have departed 
within these few years past, I am always the sadder to see 
them laid away with no other words than the form which 
the Church has prescribed for the burial of all the dead. 
In the old funeral sermons that I used to hear, how much 
there was of comfort! How sweet were the tears that ran 
down as the beloved were praised in the hour of their de- 
parture, and mourners, with their friends around them, felt 
as if they could almost see them ascending and waving back 
their farewells! The practice of parting from the dead in 
silence, and refraining afterward from the mention of their 
names, seems so strange to me, so sad. But perhaps it is 
the best. I am an old man, and, it may be, cling too 
fondly to the memories of my youth. 

The events just described took place within a day or 
two of the time fixed for the closing of the school. Over- 
ton met his pupils once more, but only to take leave of 
them. It was a sad day for them. Jack Parkinson was 
dead, and their teacher was to leave them. Teacher and 
pupils shed tears. He had taught them not books only, 
but things outside of books, and better — to love honor, to 
love truth, and to speak it ; to be brave. Every one of 
them, even the poorest and most simple-minded, had been 
led by him to believe that he could do something for which 
it was worth while to strive. 

And thus ended George Overton's career as a teacher. 
It was made quietly and on a little field. It had been be- 
gun without aim or expectation of doing any good ; yet the 
seed that he sowed sprung up and produced its harvest. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


217 


He gave an impulse to education that raised that com- 
munity quite above the average of the country society of 
the State. Such men as the Meadowses could never more 
find employment there, and they soon ceased to seek it. 

A few days after Jack's death, Overton formally asked 
for the hand of Lucy. He did this the sooner because he 
had learned that the settlement of his father’s estate had 
resulted more favorably than had been expected, and he 
could realize enough from it to enable him to live without 
other income for several years. Consent was given to his 
suit at once and cordially, and the marriage was appointed 
to take place upon his return from Virginia, whither he was 
to go in order to have a settlement with his father’s repre- 
sentatives. 


CHAPTER XII. 

^^Thar it is agin, now!” soliloquized Mr. Bill Williams, 
as soon as he had mounted his horse, and thought of Miss 
Aery’s remark that she would always be glad to see him. 
That was an unconsidered, or, at least, an unfortunate 
speech. Feeling quite safe in the matter of Miss Karline, 
Mr. Bill set about interpreting Betsy Ann’s gracious con- 
duct ; and upon reviewing the events of the day, and his 
own felicitous doings and sayings, the interpretation was 
very favorable to himself. He almost regretted having gone 
so far with Miss Karline ; but the truth was, he thought 
that it was no more than Betsy Ann could have expected 
in being so slow to recognize his claims. She knew what 
was what. Now that he had rather turned from her to 
Miss Karline, lo and behold! here she comes up and says 
she will always be glad to see Mr. Williams. Jealousy, 
jealousy! 


2i8 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Oh, how gay he did become ! — the greatest beau in the 
neighborhood. The smiles he had received from Miss 
Aery, coming on immediately after the chat with Miss 
Karline, almost spoiled him. He had not intended, in- 
deed, to go quite so far with Miss Karline on that particu- 
lar occasion, although he was saving her in his mind for his 
second choice; but his long residence in Dukesborough 
had served to impart such ease to his manners and gayety 
to his heart, that it would have been really a difficult thing 
to avoid toying with Miss Karline’s obvious fondness for 
him, and allowing her to dream, for a brief period, of what 
happiness she might have if he should conclude to bestow 
himself upon her. Then we remember that Miss Karline 
did look uncommonly well on the day of the examination. 

He had many, very many, reflections upon these things. 
Time enough, he thought. 

His mother had never fancied either his living in town 
or the personal improvement that had been brought about 
by it. She used to talk with my father about him, and his 
remarks confirmed her opinion that it would be better for 
him to quit his foolishness, as she termed it, and come 
straight back home where he belonged. We have seen 
how fond she was of Miss Karline; the two ladies had 
grown quite cordial with each other, and sometimes, even 
before the examination, Mrs. Williams would make a re- 
mark that would make Miss Karline blush, and afterward 
become more fond of Mrs. Williams than ever. The latter 
was in high glee when she had heard of her son’s last day’s 
work, and she would have gone the very next day to see 
Miss Karline, but that Mr. Bill told her that she would 
better hold on awhile. But for that remark of Miss Aery’s 
at the Thigpens’, there is no telling what might have taken 
place ; for it cannot be denied that the improvement that 
had been going on in Mr. Bill was not such as appeared to 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


219 


Messrs. Bland & Jones to be of the kind that would justify 
them in increasing his salary, as had been expected, and as 
had been even promised in certain contingencies. Mr. Bill 
had never doubted that it would be at least doubled in another 
year, in view of the invaluable services he had rendered. 
He was therefore not prepared for the announcement of 
Mr. Bland, the leading partner, instead of being raised it 
would probably have to be somewhat reduced. No com- 
plaint was made ; but these times was hard, you know, 
William, and nobody knows, you know — and so on. We 
remember that Mr. Bill had said that Mr. Bland was a 
monstous funny man. 

So Mr. Bill began to look around him. But then Betsy Ann 
was so pretty, and tempting, and cordial, that he could but 
look at her more often than at anybody else. It was, of 
course, to be expected that he would now go to the Thigpens* 
as often as his business engagements would permit ; but he 
held off, and availed himself of all opportunities to see Betsy 
Ann, and ride with her from church. On such occasions 
she would inquire about Miss Karline in a way that amused 
and interested him very much. His conscience hurt him 
sometimes when he thought how Miss Karline might be 
feeling on the subject of his continued absence and silence ; 
but, law me! wasn’t such things common every day? 

“ Philip,” he said to me one day, when I was joking him 
about both these ladies — Philip, I do b’lieve I’m gittin’ 
to be a reg’lar old flurrit.” 

By this time I had found out his meaning of this term, 
and I knew what he was after. 

Mr. Bill thought and thought. At last he made up his 
mind. 

One Sunday, on the way from church, he informed 
Betsy Ann that he had something very pinted to say to 
her. She smiled, and answered that she had been expect- 


220 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ing it for some time, and other people besides, probably, 
and that she was quite ready to hear it. Mr. Bill hemmed 
and blushed, and she laughed and begged him to go on. 
Then he got so full and so confused that he said he would 
have to send her a letter, that his words was entirely absent 
from him at the present, and he ruther thought he should 
have to send her a letter, which it was not common with 
him that he could not express himself, but his words in fac^ 
was ruther absent from him at the present. 

She looked at him very curiously, and declared that she 
couldn’t see, to save her life, why he couldn’t tell her right 
then what she knew was on his mind. This reassured him, 
and he opened his heart. 

He had always wanted to settle hisself. It had been 
his desires, yea, a long time before he had went to Josiah 
Lorriby’s school ; but which it was a great deal, yea, fair 
worse sence that — so to speak — ontimely time, becase — in 
cose — circumsances then forbid, but which they had now 
arriv. 

Betsy Ann looked at him curiously. 

Yes, indeed,” he continued, which they has now arriv, 
and the person in cos ar — a female. You know that. Miss 
Betsan? ” 

I think so. I’ve thought so some time.” Still she 
looked at him very curiously. 

‘‘ In cose you do. Yes, it’s a female. Nobody but a 
female could be expected to have anything to do with cir- 
cumsances o’ that dilicate kind. Yes, it were time I were 
settlin’ myself. I’m a gittin’ ’long in years now, and it’s 
time that a man o’ my age was settlin’ hisself. In cose hit 
could not be did, nor it could not be did, without the nec- 
essary female. And as I has made myself understood in 
all the circumsances, in cose I should now like to hear 
from the opposite party.” 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


221 


Betsy Ann looked at him so strangely that he reflected 
a moment, and then supposing that perhaps he had not 
made himself sufficiently explicit, went through another 
long circumlocution. His absent words had now returned 
in quite sufficient quantities. He spoke of the school-days 
at Lorriby’s, and that ontimely time when those ’orrible 
people, ef it hadn’t been for him, mout have done things to 
Miss Betsan which would a been too ’orrible to think 
about ; but which he should ever be glad that he was thar 
to take the — responshuability — so to speak ; and that al- 
ways sence then his bres’ had been a-beatin’ with the same 
tremenjuous feelin’s. 

Mr. Williams,” said Betsy Ann, I — don’t think I ex- 
actly understand you. I thought I did once, but now I’m 
afraid I don’t.” 

Mr. Bill reflected again, and this time upon the fact that 
in addressing females one must employ terms suitable to 
their comprehension. 

My meaning is,” he answered, with a winning smile, 
“ that as I now desires to settle myself, I also desires, in 
all the circumsances, that a certain person — the present 
female, for instance — will jine along with me and travel 
along with me down the road to happiness and bliss.” 

They were now near the Aery gate. 

Mr. Williams,” she said, is it me you’re been talking 
about all this time? Is it me^ Mr. Williams, it am*f me? 
Please tell me, Mr. Williams, that you don’t mean me!” 

Yes, but I do mean you. Who, in all the circum- 
sances of the case, could I mean but you? ” 

They stopped at the gate. Mr. Bill alighted gayly, and 
started to lead Betsy Ann’s horse to the block in order to assist 
her, but she gathered up her riding-skirts and was upon the 
ground by the time he had touched the bridle. Then she 
stood and regarded him yet more curiously than before. 


222 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


“ Mr. Williams,” she said, ''as it’s me you mean, you’ll 
give me a little time to think about it, I suppose. I thought 
it was another person that you was going to talk about. 
But as it’s me, you’ll give me a little time to think about it, 
I know. You’ll hear from me soon; I’ll not keep you 
waiting long.” 

"But how?” asked Mr. Bill. 

" Never mind,” answered Miss Aery, " I’ll find the way. 
Of course you won’t say anything about what’s passed to- 
day.” 

Not he ; he was not the man to be blabbin’ out matters, 
’specially dilicate matters like the present, to a universal 
world. 

That’s right. Good-bye now. She ran into the house, 
and Mr. Bill rode away. 

Somehow he couldn’t quite make it out, but upon the 
whole he thought he was the winner. 

As he rode away, Betsy Ann, who had reached the door, 
turned and looked at him. She leaned against the door- 
facing, patted her foot against the floor awhile, and thought, 
with an expression upon her face half serious and half 
comic. Then, lifting her bonnet and shaking her curls 
back from her neck, she said: "Yes, must tell him. 
Pie is the very one to do it ; the very, very, very one. I 
never, never, never — yes, he’s the very one to tell him, and 
he shall do it.” She then went to her room, singing a 
hymn and talking to herself alternately — 

* Come, thou fount ’ — 

"Yes, sir, that’s it — 

* Of every blessing,* 

" He’s the very one to do it — 

* Tune my heart 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW-. 


223 


If he don’t give him — 

* To sing thy grace ; ’ 

I never, never, never — 

* Streams of mercy,* 

'' Oh, Kaxline, Karline ! — 

* Never ceasing,* 

“ Dear, dear Karline — 

* Call for songs of loudest praise.* ’* 

And then Betsy Ann sat down upon her bed and cried 
and laughed, and laughed and cried. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Bill waited the answer. He thought to himself 
that he would have preferred a categorical affirmation in 
the beginning ; but he had often said that wimming was 
wimming, and it wasn’t worth while to try to alter ’em. 
This was on a Sunday, as we have seen. Friday night had 
come, and yet no answer. He was getting a little inclined 
to complain, and the more especially as he had seen Betsy 
Ann, on that very afternoon, riding by the store, on her 
way to the Thigpens’. True, she bowed very graciously to 
him and Mr. Jones, as they were standing in the door, but 
otherwise she left no sign as she passed. That night Mr. 
Bill didn’t sleep well. 

On the next morning, about ten o’clock, Allen rode up 
to the store. He alighted, hitched his horse, and walked 
in. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance, ex- 
cept that he carried in his hand a big, freshly cut hickory- 

15 


224 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Stick. He seemed to be in remarkably good health and 
spirits. 

Hello, Allen! said Mr. Bland, who was sitting before 
the door; ‘‘what’s the matter? Lame? ” 

“ Oh no, nothin’ partickler,” answered Allen. “ Is 
William Williams in this mornin’? ” 

“Yes, he’s in the store. Want to see him? ” 

“ Not very partickler — only for a minute or so. Fine day, 
Mr. Bland.” 

Allen walked in and saluted Mr. Bill thus : “ I want to 
see you a minute or so. Bill.” 

“Why, good-momin’, Allen. How’s all?” said Mr. 
Bill, disposed to be cordial, but feeling a little uneasy. 

“Well as common,” answered Allen dryly. “I wish to 
speak with you a few words. Is you partickler busy this 
mornin’ that we mout not have a little convisation jes’ ’twixt 
me and you? Ef you’re very busy I can wait till you’re 
through. But I viust have a little bit of convisation with 
you befo’ I leave. Ef you’re very busy I can set out thar 
with Mr. Bland, and wait.” 

Mr. Bill looked very curiously at the stick. 

“ I’m not so very busy, Allen, ef it’s anything very par- 
tickler. I hope — that is — in cose I hope — ” 

“ Certinly,” said Allen ; “ sposen we take a little walk, 
as maybe nary one of us mout keer about havin’ other 
people knowin’ ’bout our business.” Allen had raised his 
stick and was holding it with both hands, and quietly 
striking his teeth upon the head. Mr. Bill scratched his 
head. 

“Take — take a walk? — y e-yes. But, Allen, ah — not — 
ah — not too fur.” 

“ Oh no, jes’ across the street thar.” 

Mr. Bill came slowly from behind the counter. 

“ Is you got a stick? ” asked Allen. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


225 


''Stick?’’ exclaimed Mr. Bill. 

"Yes^ stick.” 

"No. I sildom — ah — walks with a stick nohow, and 
specially — sich a — sich a — short ways as that. Oh, stick ! ” 
and he began backing again behind the counter. 

Allen quietly placed his own in a corner. Mr. Bill 
seemed a little reassured, and coming forth again, they 
walked across the street and leaned upon a rail-fence which 
enclosed a lot on which several calves were feeding. Mr. 
Bill managed so as to get a comer between himself and 
Allen, and seemed rather thankful that one of the rails 
protruded some distance, on which he could rest his hands. 

" Bill Williams,” said Allen, "maybe you know what I’m 
goin’ to talk to you about, and maybe you don’t. I know 
you don’t know all^ but I think it’s highly prob’le you 
know some'' And Allen took a chew of tobacco. 

Mr. Bill looked anxiously back toward the store for a 
moment. " Allen, I hain’t the least idee — that is — I has — 
ah — ” 

"That is, you has a idee, is it? ” 

"Allen Thigpen, I’m as good a fren as you’ve got in all 
this blessed world — and — ” 

"That ain’t got a thing to do with it,” said Allen; 
"not the very slightest little teeny bit.” Allen chewed 
away until he could squeeze his quid into one side of his 
jaw. He had never appeared to Mr. Bill to be so stout 
and strong ; his very jaws looked as if they could grip any- 
thing they might take a fancy to. " Does you,” said Allen, 
when his quid was fixed satisfactorily — " does you, or does 
you not? Which?” 

" Is it — ah — Allen — ar it a fe — female? ” 

" Hit it right squar’ the first jump I ” 

" Ar it Miss — ah. Miss — ” 

" Right agin. Yes, it’s her.” 


226 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Mr. Bill declared that he had always been one of the 
best friends that Miss Karline ever had, and not only so, 
but he always had respected her, and ef he was to be 
asked his opinion about Miss Karline, he should — 

Oh, nobody wanted his opinion, at least yit awhile. 

Bill Williams,^’ said Allen sternly, '' I wants to know ef 
you ever did want sister Karline ; and ef you did, when, 
and why not now? and ef you didn’t, what’s all your talk- 
in’ and carrin’ on been about, and what’s your objects, and 
your meanin’s, and your intentions? Now I wants you to 
talk up squar’. And when you’re done, I’m goin’ to do 
some talkin’ myself, and Tm goin’ to talk squar’. And 
then I’ve got somethin’ else to say — about — about — some 
other matters. I tell you now I want squar’ talkin’, and 
no foolin’.” 

Mr. Bill saw that he was in difficulties. His too gay 
career was having some of its consequences. Allen,” he 
said, don’t — please don’t talk — so loud — and be — so 

brash. Le’s move on up a little furder.” But he looked 
back at the store, and seemed to doubt whether it might 
not be best to remain within easy call. Notwithstanding 
his avowed friendship for Allen, he did not prefer his so- 
ciety this morning so entirely as to wholly disregard all 
other. They walked a few steps further on and stopped, 
Mr. Bill again getting a corner between Allen and himself. 
He drew a long breath. He would have gladly made a 
long speech if Allen had not insisted on his being perfectly 
squar’.” 

Allen, I has long wanted to settle myself, yea, even 
befo’ I quit the country and moved into Dukesborough. 
Somehow I got dissatisfied in the country and thought I 
would try town awhile, and — ” 

Oh, ding the country, and the town too! ” 

Cert’nly, cert’nly. As I was sayin’, I has wanted to 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


227 


settle myself, and so did mammy want it ; and at one time 
she and me too was thinkin’ that Miss — that is — Miss 
Karhne were the very person that could make a man like 
myself go on hand and hand down the road to happiness 
and bliss; and which even now, ef she had ary friend 
upon the top-side of this universal, ontimely old world — ” 
“ Oh, ding all about friends, and all sich ! ” 

“ Cert’nly, cert’nly. But lately, it is true that they ar 
another person — which — I donh like to name names — but 
it — cert’nly — yes — in cose — it ar a fe — female ; and then, 
yes — a fe — fe — ” 

That’ll do,” said Allen, bobbing his head — “ that’ll do. 
Well, now. Bill, one of the curiousest things about the 
whole business is that you should a thought, even ef sister 
Karline would a stood sich as that, that you should a 
thought that / would. I got to be plain with you, becase 
it’s a right dilicate business. How sister Karline could 
take a likin’ to you. Bill Williams, I nuver could under- 
stan’ ; but that ain’t nuther here nor thar. But that part 
of it ain’t none o’ my business. You talked to her, and so 
did your mother ; and you two come it over her somehow, 
I don’t know how : I sposen sich things happens every- 
whar. You have as good as ast her to have you, you and 
your mother betwixt you, and she did make up her mind 
to do it — without consultin’ o’ me ; I had nothin’ to do 
’long with it, and I’m glad of it. But so, lo and behold, 
you back out. Well, now, you see. Bill Williams, sich as 
that I — don’t — stand.” At this point Allen made him a 
low bow. Bill Williams,” he continued, “ I have left home 
to come here this momin’ to put two things to you. I didn’t 
expect to put but one at first — but — but — on thinkin’ a 
little about it, and talkin’ a little about it with — a certin 
person, I made up my mind to put you up two. Now see 
here: sister Karline don’t understan’ all your ways yit, 


228 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


though she ’spicions you strong. Now here’s them two 
things: You’ve got to go to sister Karline and ask her 
plump, squar’ up to have you, and let her be the one that’s 
to say no^ ef anybody have to say it ; or, you’ve got me 
to whip. Now one or t’other: you’ve got to lay the whole 
case befo’ sister Karline, and do what she say, or you got 
me to whip. Which will you do? Maybe you ruther take 
the last.” 

Mr. Bill raised his arms in a deprecating attitude, as if 
few things were further from his intentions or desires than 
to inflict corporal injury upon Mr. Thigpen. 

Oh, what a quandary he was in! 

Bill Williams,” Allen began again, '' I had made up my 
mind this mornin’ to pitch right spang into you the first thing 
after I laid my eyes on you. I tell you why. I thought you 
jes’ been triflin’ ’long with sister Karline, and never did keer 
anything about her nohow. Not that I don’t know that 
she’s the best ’oman in this world, and worth two dozen 
sich fellers as you or ary — Oh, ding it all 1 ” and Allen 
wiped his eye and blew his nose. But I notice sence you 
been livin’ in this here town, you ’pear to be like you feel 
like you better’n t’other people, and I thought you jes’ been 
carrin’ on with her and havin’ your game and fun outen 
her. But you say jes’ now that you did one time like her 
well enough to have her, or leastways you thought you did. 
Is that so in fac’P Mind you, now, no foolin’ and no 
dodgin’ ; I want squar’ talk from you.” 

It ar a blessed fac’, Allen, a blessed, blessed fac’, on 
the honor of a man which he were once gay and happy as 
you, but which he now hardly know hisself, and what he 
ought to — ah — that is — in all the ontimely, as it war, cir- 
cumsances of — ah — ” 

''Oh, ding the circumstances!” 

"Cert’nly, cert’nly. But listen to me, Allen, please. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


229 

The difficulty is, I have used words of a certing kind, yea 
to another person — I can’t say who — becase I have prom- 
ised not; but you know — in cose it ar a fe — fe — male, 
and I’m — you see, Allen, — oh me — I’m sorter in honor 
bound thar too, and I’m a-expectin’ of a anser every day. 
Ef it wasn’t for that — oh, my blessed me!” and Mr. Bill 
scratched his head with both hands. 

Ef it wasn’t for that, what? ” asked Allen quickly. 

‘^Oh, Allen — I don’t — know — ^but I do b’lieve, and so 
do mammy, and I always shall b’lieve that — ah — Miss 
Karline is — the best ’oman in the united world,” and he 
rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist, and looked very 
pitiful and longing. 

And you’re waitin’ your anser, is you? ” 

Indeed I am, Allen, and which I hardly know.” 

Well, I’ve fotch it to you.” 

Allen took a chew and started to hand the twist to Mr. 
Bill, but gave up the notion and put it in his pocket. Mr. 
Bill opened his eyes wide. ‘'Yes, I fotch your anser to 
you, and hit war another piece of my business with you 
this mornin’. Bill Williams, when you thought about 
drappin’ sister Karline for Betsan Aery, that war a thing 
that couldn’t well be hope. Ef you could a gof Betsy 
Ann, or ef you had a thought you could a got her, I don’t 
blame you for wantin’ of her. Still it was shabby in you, 
not to act squar’ up like a man, and go to sister Karline 
and tell her all about it. But still I can’t blame you for 
wantin’ of Betsy Ann.” 

Allen pulled out his twist and offered it to Mr. Bill. 

“You don’t chaw? I thought you chawed. Well, you 
see. Bill, Betsy Ann and sister Karline is monstous friendly 
— we’re all friendly. I sposen you know that? ” 

“ In cose I does, and that what make me say — ” 

“Hold on! Betsy Anh’s the person you spoke to last 


230 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Sunday. She told you she would give you a anser, didn't 
she? ” 

Yes,” answered Mr. Bill, not knowing exactly what he 
thought, or what he desired. 

''Well, I fotch her anser to you. She tell me to tell 
Mr. Williams (for they was the very words she said) — she 
says to me to tell Mr. Williams that she is very sorry for 
the misonderstandin’ betwixt her and him ; for she thought 
that his idees was about another person, or, as you mout 
say, another female ; and that she didn't know no better till 
last Sunday, and that she still must sposen that she must be 
mistaken, or him one. But she furthermo’ ast me to say, 
ef she is not mistaken, nor him nuther, and she is the per- 
son who he do want, then so fur as she is consarned he is 
too late. She feel the honor and all sich, but he is too 
late.” 

Allen tore off about a cubic inch of tobacco, put it in 
his mouth and spat at a rock about fifteen feet off. 

"Yes, Bill, too late. Ahead of you thar. Bill. Hit 
couldn^t be hope. I beat you thar.” 

Pitiful and perplexed looked Mr. Bill, Allen chewing 
away as if it were Betsy Ann herself that he was eating up. 

" Now lookee here. Bill : sister Karline don't know about 
all this here business of yourn and Betsy Ann. I wanted 
to tell her right squar' up, but Betsy Ann said no ; so she 
don't know it. Now listen to me. Sister Karline and me 
has got to have a division of what’s thar on the place this 
fall. As she’s a female, and as she’s the best sister that any 
man ever did have in this world. I’m goin’ to 'low her five 
hundred dollars the 'vantage in the settlement. Ef arfter 
what's past you and she can make it up — but which I tell 
you now that onless you wanted her and ruther have her 
than ary nother female, she wouldn't have you ef you had 
a gold nigger hung to every har on top of your head — but 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


231 


ef, I say, ef you and she has a mind to make it up, thar it 
is. Ef not, and ef you don’t make some sort o’ satisfaction 
for your carrin’ on, and ef you don’t promise me right here 
that you’re goin’ to do it, you got me to whip.” 

Allen threw out his quid, planted himself firmly on his 
pegs, clenched his fists, and looked as if he meant all that 
he said. 

Mr. Bill looked at Allen, then on the ground, then back 
at the store, then over the fence at the calves. His coun- 
tenance became more and more calm. Finally he looked 
at Allen again, smiled blandly, and said : ‘^Allen, I wouldn’t 
hurt a har o’ your head, not for all the money that this on- 
timely old world could raise to pay me for doin’ it ; and — ” 

^^Oh, the dickence!” 

Cert’nly, cert’nly. But what I’m a-thinkin’ about now 
is a female, and that female ar Miss Karline. Betsan ar 
right, and I knowed it ef I had a knowed what I was about. 
It was Miss Karline that I wanted all the time. Ef she’ll 
take me arfter what’s past. I’ll jine my heart along with 
hern, and go hand in hand along with her down the road 
to happiness and bliss.” 

Oh, I don’t keer what road you ’spect to take ; but ef 
you foller sister Karline’s advice and go to work, you’ll go 
safe. They ain’t no doubt about that.” 

Cert’nly, cert’nly ; that’s ezactly what I means.” 

‘‘You do it, then? ” 

“ I do. I thought I done already said what was cata- 
mount to that. I always did love her the best, but which 
I didn’t ezactly know it till jes’ now.” 

Mr. Bill took Allen’s hand, and said it would do him 
proud to call him brother and likewise Betsan sister. Allen 
let him hold it an instant, and then withdrew it and took 
out his plug. 

“Have a chaw? No? Iforgit; you don’t chaw.” 


232 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


“ Allen,” said Mr. Bill, as they were about to separate, 
‘'maybe it’s better not — to — ah — say anything to Miss 
Karline ’bout — ^last Sunday. Wimming’s wimming, you 
know, and — ” 

“ I got nothin’ mo’ to do with it, Bill ; I shall say nothin* 
’bout it. But I tell you now, you better be keerful : sister 
Karline ain’t so easy fooled as you mout think. You be 
keerful.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Miss Karline did not inquire of her brother on what 
errand he was going to Dukesborough. She had been 
more than usually thoughtful of late, but had kept her 
thoughts to herself. Betsy Ann was treated at this visit as 
she always had been, and especially since her engagement 
with Allen. Mr. Bill’s name was mentioned once or twice 
casually, but Miss Karline did not notice the allusion. 
The next day Betsy Ann went home, and that very after- 
noon Mr. Bill rode up. Allen had seen him coming and 
dodged out of view. 

Mr. Bill tried to look gay and gallant. " And how is 
my friend Miss Karline this sweet and lovely evenin’ like? ” 

Miss Karline was quite cool. Of course she could but 
ask Mr. Williams to take a seat. She very politely re- 
marked that as she sposen he had come to see her brother 
on business, she would have him called in. Mr. Bill pro- 
tested that he had not come to see Allen, but her, and her 
only. For the life of Miss Karline she could not under- 
stand what about, and thought he must be mistaken. 
If Mr. Williams did not want to see her brother, then he 
ought to have come yesterday, for then they had a very 
pleasant girl in the house, which she might have been very 
pleasant company for Mr. Williams. 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


233 


Mr. Bill saw his danger, and went right to work. He 
made a rather slighting allusion to the young lady in ques- 
tion ; but Miss Karline caught him up at once, and warned 
him to be keerful how he talked. So Mr. Bill had to come 
out squarely. He confessed, and vowed his love anew, 
and even condescended to beg. But it all amounted to 
nothing. He told his mother that night that Miss Karline 
had kicked him so high that the bluebirds had time enough 
to pick every har from his head and build their nesteses 
outen it. 

“ Jes’ as I ’spected,” said his mother. But she did not 
reproach him harshly, for she saw that for the first time in 
his life he was seriously mortified and depressed. Then, as 
his engagement with Bland & Jones had just expired, he had 
come home and was to stay there. This had gratified her 
greatly, and so she had not the heart to scold him. But 
she told him to go on and attend to the business. In a day 
or two he expressed the intention of going to see Miss Kar- 
line again, but his mother would not hear of this. Wait, 
I tell you, wait. 

A few days after this, as Miss Karline was sitting in her 
door, Mrs. Williams came up. She rose immediately and 
went out to meet her. Miss Karline was, perhaps, a little 
more cordial than usual, for she felt that she could but 
sympathize with Mrs. Williams in what she very well knew 
was giving her distress. So she met her even affectionately, 
and insisted upon carrying into the house a curious-looking 
bundle which the old lady had brought with her. It was 
something sewed up carefully in a pillow-case. 

After entering into the house and exchanging a remark 
or two about the weather, their health, and so forth, Mrs. 
Williams looked at the bundle with a most sorrowful face, 
and then at Miss Karline. Then she peaked up her features 
as if for a cry, and shook her head dismally. 


234 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Something is the matter with you, Mrs. Williams ; I jes* 
know they is. Ain^t you sick, Mrs. Williams? ” and Miss 
Karline rose to get the camphor, which stood ready in a 
big bottle on the mantel. 

Mrs. Williams put out her hand. Not that, not that. 
I ain’t sick in body ; it’s here.” She laid her hand upon 
her heart and murmured feebly, ” It’s broke.” 

Miss Karline looked down at the floor, and felt very 
sorry for her friend. 

“ Open that bundle, Karline, if you please.” Miss Kar- 
line opened it slowly and cautiously, as if she suspected it 
to be an infernal machine. She took out the contents, 
laid it on the table, then sat down, and exclaiming, Oh, 
Mrs. Williams!” she folded her hands on her lap and 
leaned her head upon the table. 

^^Yes,” said Mrs. Williams, hit’s Bonaparte a-crossin’ 
o’ the Rhine. I hain’t the heart to keep it now. Hit’s 
never been spread but once. I put hit on the shed-room 
bed, jes’ to see how it would look, and it look lovely indeed. 
And then I took it off and folded it nice, jes’ as you see it 
now, and put it in the chist ; and, says I, I’ll save it till — 
oh, my goodness me! But it’s a life o’ disappintments.” 
And she continued to shake her head. 

Oh, Miss Karline, Miss Karline! How can you afford 
to behold such distress? Indeed you cannot, for your 
head is kept leaning on the table. 

''Yes, Karline, I couldn’t keep Bonaparte any longer 
now, arfter my heart’s done goned and broke. And what 
have broke it? Hit’s becase my onliest child’s heart are 
broke also too and likewise the same.” 

" If his heart’s broke,” said Miss Karline, raising her 
head, " it wasn’t me that broke it.” She spoke firmly, but 
not harshly. 

" Ah, my dear Karline, you don’t know that child. Yes ; 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


235 


hit’s you that broke it. He’s a-dyin’ for you day by day. 
He jes’ goes about, and goes about. He ain’t got no stomach 
for his vittals. His westcoats has had to be tuck up two 
blessed times ; and he don’t, and I sometimes think he 
can't^ tie his shoes. He scacely ever says anything to me 
nor nobody else ; and my feelin’s is powerful, that, without 
some change, and that soon, the poor child is a-goin’ to 
lose of his senses. Hit was only last night when I was a- 
tryin’ to ’courage him up a leetle bit, says he to me, says 
he, ' Let me alone, mammy, I’m moloncholly,’ and then he 
got up and tried to sing that hime — 

* An’ let this feebyul body fail, 

An’ let it faint or die ; ’ 

and he broke down befo’ he got through the very fust 
veerse, and went ’long off to bed. Oh, my goodness 
blessed me ! ” 

It was in vain that Miss Karline insisted that it wasn’t 
she that had placed Mr. Bill in his present condition. She 
didn’t know the child. It was true that he had done wrong 
that Sunday, but it was all them Dukesborough ways ; and 
she knowed that he loved Miss Karline the best, and that 
he has now done quit Dukesborough and all sich foolish- 
ness, and that even Mr. Pearch said William had done 
ezactly what he ought to a done when he quit Dukesbor- 
ough ; and he war nately a industrous young man, and he 
told me with his own mouth that if William could git 
Karline Thigpen, he didn’t have a doubt that it would be 
the finest thing that could happen to him, and he thought 
he would git studdy and make a good farmer. Now they 
was the very words he said, and — oh, gracious, gracious, 
gracious! ” 

Miss Karline deeply sympathized with the widow. She 
felt sorry for her from the bottom of her heart. They had 


236 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


a long talk. '' I wouldn’t a blamed Mr. Williams,'* she 
said,'' for likin’ Betsy Ann ; she’s younger than I am, and 
a heap prettier. But — he oughtn’t to been courtin’ both 
of us at the same time. He ought to made up his mind, 
and not trifle with people — still he was gentlemany in 
tellin’ me about it, and which — ” 

Miss Karline could go no further. She leaned her head 
on the table again. The widow pressed upon her as she 
found her giving way. Oh, how she did dwell on Mr. 
Bill’s moloncholly, and the tuckin’ up of his westcoats, and 
his havin’ of no stomach for his vittals! But Miss Karline 
would not make any promise. She would think about it. 
The widow said that she could not take back home with her 
Bonaparte a-crossin’ o’ the Rhine without some little, some 
leetle bit o’ hope for her poor ’flicted child. Miss Karline 
looked at the counterpane for a moment. She had made 
the counterpin for her — leastways she and Betsy Ann to- 
gether, which of cose she had furnished the thread herself 
and done most of the weavin’. She had made it for Mrs. 
Williams, and for nobody but her, and which, she had said, 
and would say it again, that she had loved her next to her 
own blessed mother that was now dead and gone ; and that 
as for herself, if she knowed herself, she was not a person 
that, when she give things as presents to people, would ever 
wish to take ’em back again. 

During this and more such talk. Miss Karline care- 
fully sewed up the counterpane in the pillow-case, and, 
though she declared that she could make no promises, the 
widow hugged her tight. She shortly afterward took her 
leave and rode on home, carrying tenderly in her lap Bona- 
parte a-crossin’ o’ the Rhine. 

The next day Mr. Bill was at the Thigpens’ good and 
soon. He came in with a subdued and solemn air. He 
had been extremely moloncholly, he confessed. After some 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


^37 


preliminary remarks, in which he again spoke of how im- 
portant it was, in this vain and foolish world, for a man to 
settle hisself, he got upon his knees before Miss Karline, 
and declared that he loved her the best and the onliest of 
all the females in this blessed world, and that he would 
never rise from that blessed floor until she had forgive 
him. 

Miss Karline declared to him, upon her word and honor 
she declared to him, that if it was not for his mother’s sake 
she wouldn’t ; and as for Betsy Ann, she was goin’ to be her 
dear sister anyhow, and it wouldn’t look right maybe ; and 
for the sake of his mother, and — then Miss Karline broke 
down, and extended him her hand. Mr. Bill arose, flung 
away his moloncholly in an instant, and declared that he 
could now see his way clear all down the road to happiness 
and bliss. 

Just then Allen came in. Seeing at once that all was 
settled, he went to his sister and put his arm around her. 
Finding he was about to cry, he jerked out his tobacco, 
tore off a big piece, crammed it in his mouth, and, hand- 
ing the twist to Mr. Bill, said : 

Have a thaw. Bill? No, I forgith, you don’t thaw.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

A COUNTRY wedding in Georgia, in the times whereof I 
write, was a thing worth going to. Allen and Betsy Ann 
were married on a Tuesday, and Mr. Bill and Miss Karline 
were to be joined on the next Thursday. The best showing 
was reserved for the last. They would have had both 
marriages on the same night if it had been convenient. 
As it was, Allen and Betsy Ann agreed in insisting that the 


238 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


big supper should be at his sister’s. All the neighbors were 
invited, men, women, and children ; and most of them went. 
Pig, lamb, turkey, chicken, duck, pea-fowl, goose, part- 
ridge, pigeon, cake, syllabub. Oh, the syllabub! Every 
tumbler and wine-glass in the neighborhood had been called 
in, and were then incapable of holding it all. Miss Karline, 
and Betsy Ann, and Mrs. Glisson, and Allen, and Brinkly, 
they all made it. How they did work at it! Betsy Ann 
and Allen beat up the whites of the eggs, and Betsy Ann de- 
clared a hundred times that day that that syllabub wouldn’t 
be fit to drink, because Allen would keep leaving off the 
beating just to give her cheeks a pinch. Brinkly was in 
good feather. It was understood that he was to be edu- 
cated, even to sending to college, by Mr. Overton, who 
was now gone to Virginia, but would be back in good time 
for all purposes. 

The guests all reached the house at the appointed time. 
The marriage was to take place by early candle-light, and 
in those days the night was understood to begin as the sun 
went down. 

Mr. Bill had on a blue coat, buff pants and vest, a white 
stock, pumps, and silk stockings. No taking up of waist- 
coats now. He was never so gay. He answered the 
preacher with a Yes so loud that you would have thought 
nobody had ever before taken a responsibility with a greater 
resolve to keep it. Miss Karline, in pure white all over, 
looked as if she knew it was a serious business, but she had 
reflected upon it, and had made up her mind to go through 
with it. After the ceremony was over, the shaking of 
hands began. How they did wring! Mr. Bill declared 
scores of times that he could now look ahead and see the 
way perfectly clear. It was a great responsibility, he ad- 
mitted ; but he had somebody to help him take it now, and 
he felt that he could now bid farewell to a vain and foolish, 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


239 


but which now it were also a blessed and glorious, old 
world. He twitted Allen on having beaten him so far. 
This was done in a very jocose and friendly way, how- 
ever. He knew how safe it was to run Miss Karline 
against anybody, even Allen’s wife. Allen made no other 
answer to his boast than this: ‘^Sister Karline will car’ 
you safe. Bill, ef you foller her advice, and go to work. I 
never wanted a chaw o’ tobacker as bad in my born days ; 
I hain’t had one sence day befo’ yistiday.” 

The fiddling and the dancing began ; and then the sup- 
per — turkey, turkey, cake and syllabub, syllabub and cake. 
The only thing that marred Miss Karline’s happiness was 
that people wouldn’t be everlastingly eating. Many de- 
clared that they were filled up to the very top of their 
throats, but Miss Karline was for stuffing in more and wash- 
ing down with syllabub. It was nothin’ in the world but 
froth, and wouldn’t hurt anybody. Mr. Bill indorsed his 
wife fully, and it was said the number of tumblers he took 
couldn’t be counted. 

The dancing went on until nearly midnight, the older 
guests having departed long before that hour. The grand 
thing, after the Virginia reel, was a duet of some sort be- 
tween Mr. Bill and Betsy Ann. The question was who 
could hold out the longest. Mr. Bill gave the challenge, 
and counted on a great triumph, at which he knew Miss 
Karline would be gratified. His idea was to break her 
down by vigorous moves in the beginning. The quantity of 
syllabub he had taken, together with the joyousness of the 
occasion, made him feel that, like old Molly’s colt, he could 
jump over the moon. 

Betsy Ann understood his little game, and called to the 
fiddler for a more vigorous measure. It was Morris, who 
belonged to Mr. Parkinson. Morris struck at once into 
his masterpiece, which he called Sally Goodin. My gra- 
16 


240 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


cious, how it did go! You couldn't see the bow at all ; but 
you could hear, as well the fiddle as Morris's foot as he 
kept time upon the floor. Betsy Ann's feet rattled like the 
rain. And she was — splendid. That's all I can say for 
Betsy Ann that night. Mr. Bill did elegantly at first, and 
his heels shook the very beams of the house. “Faster!" 
cried Betsy Ann; “why don't you play up, Morris?" 
Then, taking her skirts with the tips of her thumbs and fore- 
fingers and lifting them slightly, she spun around twice, and, 
if the eye alone could have been trusted, people would 
have said that Betsy Ann had a thousand feet and ankles. 
Mr. Bill had started out with his shoulders set back and his 
arms hanging easily behind him, but he had gradually come 
up straight, and afterward he leaned over in front. Hither- 
to his arms had played an important part, as they swung 
back and forth to help out his legs ; but it was not long be- 
fore they began to hang heavily from his shoulders, and 
his fingers twitched as if they were getting ashamed of the 
probable result. 

Allen was standing beside the wall holding his sister's 
hand, and no other two enjoyed the contest as they did. 
“ Never give it up. Bill! " Allen cried ; “ don't you see she 
can’t hold out much longer? ” 

Mr. Bill had never looked more serious. He had 
naturally a good ear for time, but he got slower and slower, 
making up by coming down heavy on the tonic notes of 
the music. He looked at Betsy Ann with a fierceness which 
made him seem as if he felt that his honor as a married 
man depended upon the result, and was in danger of being 
ruined at the start. His lower jaw began now to partake 
of his general ponderosity, and his knees to give each other 
confused knockings. Miss Karline was so full of laughter 
that she could say nothing ; but, holding her handkerchief 
to her mouth with one hand, she gave Allen a sign and a 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


241 


push with the other. Allen passed around, came up behind 
him, and spread out his arms. He gave a wink to Betsy 
Ann, who smiled, spun around again, and cried aloud to 
the fiddler, Faster!’^ 

Then she flew up to Mr. Bill and seized his hands for 
another turn, but those hands were limber and heavy. As 
she pulled them up, Mr. Bill’s balance was destroyed, and 
he fell back into the arms of Allen. Shouts of laughter 
and clapping of hands followed. They put the vanquished 
into a chair, but he was too exhausted even to laugh, until 
they brought him a tumbler of syllabub. 

^'Ah! hah!” he ejaculated, '^but hit’s the fust time — 
time — ever I war — non — pi — plushed at that. Ah I hah ! ” 

Allen assured him that if he had held out a minute longer 
Betsan would a give out; he had seed it in her looks. 
Betsy Ann fanned herself, and answered Allen by cutting 
the pigeon-wing. Mr. Bill looked up without moving his 
mouth from the tumbler, gave a tired smile, shook his head, 
and murmured : 

Thnon — thpluthed, Allen, thnon — thpluthed.” 

The guests all left at last, after the shaking of hands 
again, and the congratulations, and the wishing all sorts 
of good things. Everybody carried away a great bundle 
of cake which the two brides insisted upon loading them 
with. But the syllabub was not yet all gone. Allen made 
Mr. Bill take another tumbler. 

“ Won’t you take one yourself ? ” inquired Mr. Bill. 

Yes,” answered Allen, “that is, ef I can’t take a chaw, 
but I heap ruther have a chaw.” 

Betsy Ann shook her head, and he took the syllabub. 

Mr. Bill sipped his syllabub, and said it war a beautiful 
skene ; all thar in the family like together. It war the 
beautifulest skene that ever was loed and beholded. He 
could now lay his hand on his bres’ and say that he could 


242 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


now look ahead of him and see ^em all travelin* down to- 
gether on the road — 

But Miss Karline took his tumbler and said it was time 
for her and Betsy Ann to put up the things. 

“ Philip,” said Mr. Bill to me, about a week after his 
marriage — Philip, my young fren, I never knowed what 
happiness and bliss was befo\ And let me give you a 
piece of advice, becase I’m a man of experence and you’re 
yit young. When you git a man, Philip, and go to git 
married, you git a settled ’oman ; take my advice, Philip, 
and marry a settled ’oman.” 


CHAPTER XVr. 

The winter had come and gone. It had been passed by 
Overton in Virginia, in arranging his matters there prepara- 
tory to his final removal to Georgia. Many a letter had 
come and gone. I must not recite them here. Nothing 
is so dependent (for the interest they excite) upon time and 
other accidents as love-letters. They may well be said to 
be glorious things, but it is in a way the least general. 
Every one has a certain glory of its own ; yet it is never 
but for one being ; it cannot be shed abroad. Even for 
that one being it passes away in the lapse of time. The 
missive comes, by trembling hands the seal is broken, and 
the words come into the heart like the rain into the thirsty 
earth. It dilates with ineffable sweetness. But that sweet- 
ness, just as it is then, that half stilly, half tumultuous sv/eet- 
ness, is gone even before the second reading. When love’s 
course is run, and finds its fruition in the serene affections 
of marriage, who is there that is wont to go often to the 
casket that holds its written history and seeks to bring back 


OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 


243 


the feelings which its first inditing inspired? They come 
no more ; no more than youth comes again to age. The 
casket and its ancient records are dutifully and reverently 
preserved in some secret and sacred archive. We may oc- 
casionally open and read awhile, as we curiously look over 
a relic of olden literature ; but as in the one so in the other, 
we smile at what sounds as the quaint language of a time 
that is long past. One keeps such records as the contem- 
poraneous history of a state which, though happy, was not 
more so than the present, perhaps not so much so, yet more 
ecstatic in the short periods of its ecstasy ; but one sighs as 
well as smiles to feel that, for the purposes of their ancient 
uses, they are now obsolete, like music past : 

** ’Twas sweet, ’twas passing sweet, 

But now ’tis gone away.’^ 

The spring was opening, and it was in the evening of a 
bright day. Lucy Parkinson took her usual walk to the 
graveyard. It was on the roadside, prettily situated in the 
edge of the woods. It was inclosed by a fence of upright 
boards and hedged with cedar. There were several ever- 
green trees and willows on the corners of the walks. Under 
one of these Lucy sat upon a rustic bench. She wore a 
white muslin robe, which was confined at her waist by a 
belt of black ribbon. In her hair there were some violets 
and white jasmines. Her broad hat lay in her lap, and her 
hands toyed with its ribbons as she sat there so thoughtful. 

How various must be the thoughts of a pure-minded 
young woman as she approaches the time when she must 
give herself away to the man of her choice! How ready, 
yet how reluctant! Who can tell her what that mysterious 
estate may bring along with it to her? It is sweet to love 
and to be loved as now : will it be more so when her life 
is merged into another’s? 


244 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


There was sadness upon her brow, but it was the sadness 
of a true heart, which, in its modest estimate of its own 
strength, was thinking upon the serious destinies of that 
career to which she was fast tending, and upon which she 
so desired, yet so feared, to enter. She had placed her arm 
upon the back of the bench, and her head rested upon her 
open hand. The latch of the little gate was gently lifted. 
She raised her eyes and saw Overton. 

How amply that reunion repaid them for their long 
separation! How free from doubt and from fear was now 
that loving girl as she clung to the bosom of her affianced, 
and could not speak, but only look, and languish, and weep. 
Long they sat there together. When they rose to go, Lucy 
paused at Jack^s grave, and other tears were in her eyes. 

He is not here,” said Overton — '' he is not here, but is 
risen.” 

Two weeks from that day they were married. None 
were present besides the family, except Mr. Sanford, Mrs. 
Glisson and Brinkly. 

This son will take the other one’s place now,” said the 
widow to Mrs. Parkinson. And they both wept, but smiled 
through their tears. 


THE EXPENSIVE TREAT OF COLONEL 
MOSES GRICE. 


** It’s hardly in a body’s power 
To keep at times frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar’d.” — Bums, 


CHAPTER I. 

Besides an incipient ventriloquist who had included it 
in a limited provincial tour which he was making in some 
hope of larger development of his artistic powers, the only 
show that had visited Dukesborough thus far was the wax 
figures. The recollection of that had ever been unsatisfac- 
tory. I can just remember that one of the figures was 
William Pitt, and another the Sleeping Beauty; that the 
former was the saddest and yellowest great statesman that 
I had had opportunity, thus far, to look upon, and the 
latter — well, it is not pleasant, even now, to recall how 
dead, how long time dead, she appeared. When Aggy, 
my attendant, seeing me appalled at the sight, repeatedly 
asseverated, De lady is jes’ a-tired and a-takin^ of a nap,’* 
I cried the louder, and plucked so at Aggy that she had to 
take me away. Though not thus demonstrative, yet even 
elderly country people acknowledged to disappointment, 
and there was a general complaint that if what had been 
was the best that could be done by Dukesborough in the 


246 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


way of public entertainment, it might as well take itself 
away from the great highway of human travel, suspend its 
school, sell out its two stores at cost, abolish its tavern and 
post-office, tear down its blacksmith’s and shoe shops, 
and, leaving only its meeting-house, resolve itself into the 
elements from which it had been aggregated. Not that 
these were the very words ; but surely their full equivalents 
were employed when William Pitt, the Sleeping Beauty, 
and their pale associates had silently left the town. 

As for a circus, such an institution was not known, except 
by hearsay, even to Colonel Moses Grice, of the Fourteenth 
Regiment Georgia Militia, though he was a man thirty- 
five years old, over six feet high, of proportional weight, 
owned a good plantation with about twenty negroes, and 
had seen the theater as many as three times in the city of 
Augusta. The ideas the colonel received there were such, 
he said, as would last him to the end of his days — a period 
believed to be remote, barring, of course, all contingencies 
of future wars. To this theatrical experience, however, he 
had been desirous, for some time, to add that of the circus, 
assured in his mind, that, from what he had heard, it was 
a good thing. It happened once, while on a visit to Au- 
gusta, whither he had accompanied a wagon-load of his 
cotton, that he met at Collier’s tavern, where he sojourned, 
a circus forerunner, who was going the rounds with his ad- 
vertisements. Getting soon upon terms of intimacy with 
one who seemed to him the most agreeable, entertaining, 
and intelligent gentleman that he had ever met. Colonel 
Grice imparted to him such information about Dukesbor- 
ough that, although that village was not upon the list of 
appointments — Dukesborough, in point of fact (to his 
shame the agent confessed it), not having been even heard 
of — yet a day was set for its visitation, and, when visited, 
another was set for the appearance there of the Great 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


247 

World-renowned Circus, which claimed for its special 
homes London, Paris, and New York. 

It would be entertaining to a survivor of that period to 
make even small boys, from families of most limited means 
in this generation, comprehend the interest excited by those 
advertisements, in huge black and red letters, that were 
tacked upon the wall of Spouter’s tavern. From across 
Beaver Dam, Shoulderbone, Fulsom’s, the Ogeechee, from 
even the head- waters of streams leading to the Oconee, 
they came to read over and spell over the mighty words. 
Colonel Grice, who had been found, upon his own frank 
admission, to be the main mover, was glad to answer all 
inquiries concerning its magnitude, its possible influences 
upon the future of Dukesborough, and kindred subjects. 
There would have been a slight drawback to the general 
eager expectation on grounds moral and religious ; but the 
World-renowned had anticipated and provided against that, 
as will hereafter appear. Then Colonel Grice had signified 
his intention of meeting the impending institution on the 
occasion of at least two of its exhibitions before its arrival, 
and he should take it upon himself to warn it of the kind of 
people it was coming among. 

The colonel resided five miles south of the village. He 
had a wife, but no child (a point on which he was, perhaps, 
a little sore), was not in debt, was hospitable, an en- 
courager (especially in words), of public and private enter- 
prises, and enthusiastically devoted, though without experi- 
ence in wars, to the military profession, which — if he might 
use the expression — he would call his second wife. Off 
the muster-field he habitually practiced that affability which 
is pleasant because so rare to see in the warrior class. 
When in full uniform and at the head of the regiment, with 
girt sword and pistol-holster, he did indeed look like a man 
not to be fooled with; and. the sound of his voice in utter- 


248 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


ance of military orders was such as to show that he intended 
those orders to be heard and obeyed. When the regiment 
was disbanded, the sternness would depart from his mien, 
and, though yet unstripped of weapons and regalia, he 
would smile blandly, as if to reassure spectators that, for 
the present, the danger was over, and persons might ap- 
proach without apprehension. 

He met the circus even farther away than he at first had 
intended. He had determined to study it, he said, and he 
traveled in all some seventy miles on horseback, attending 
daily and nightly exhibitions. Several times during this 
travel and afterward, on the forenoon of the great day in 
Dukesborough, he was heard to say that, if he were limited 
to one word with which to describe what he had seen, that 
word would be — gorgeivus. '' As for what sort of a people 
them circus people are,” he said, “ in a moral and in a re- 
ligious sense, now — ahem ! you know, gentlemen and ladies^ 
especially ladies — ah, ha! I’m not a member, but I’m as 
great a respecter of religion as can be found in the whole 
State of Georgy. Bein’ raised to that, I pride myself on 
that. Now these circus people, they ain’t what I should 
call a highly moral, that is, they ain’t a strictly religions 
people. You see, gentlemen, that ain’t, not religion ain’t, 
so to speak, their business. They ain’t goin’ about preach- 
in’, and havin’ camp-meetin’ revivals, and givin’ singin’- 
school lessons. They are — I wish I could explain myself 
about these circus people. These circus people are a-tryin’ 
— you know, gentlemen, different people makes their livin’ 
in different ways ; and these circus people are jes’ a-tryin’ 
to do exactly the same thing in jes’ exactly the same way. 
Well, gentlemen, gorgerous is the word I should say about 
their performances. I should not confine myself to the 
word religion. Strictly speakin’, that word do not embrace 
all the warious warieties, so to speak, of a circus. My word 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


249 


would be GORGEROUS ; and I think that’s the word you all 
will use when that tent is up, that door is open, and you are 
rushin’ into its — its — I don’t know whether to use the word 
jaws or departiments. But, for the sake of decency. I’ll 
say — departiments. As for moral and religious, gentlemen 
— and ’specially, ladies — I tell you, it ain’t neither a camp- 
meetin’, a ’sociation, a quarterly meetin’, nor a singin’-school. 
I’m not a member, but I’m a respecter ; and as to all that, 
and all them, Dukesborough may go further and fare worse. 
That’s all I got to say.” 

On the day before. Colonel Grice, by this time grown in- 
timate with the manager, and as fond of him as if he had 
been his own brother (some said even fonder), in the full- 
ness of his heart had invited the whole force to breakfast 
with him on the way to Dukesborough, and the invitation 
had been accepted. What was consumed was enormous ; 
but he could afford it, and his wife, especially with distin- 
guished visitors, was as hospitable and open-hearted as 
himself. 


CHAPTER II. 

Other persons besides boys believed in their hearts that 
they might not have been able to endure another day’s de- 
lay of the show. For a brief period the anxiety of school- 
children amounted to anguish when the master expressed 
doubts as to a holiday ; for holidays then were infrequent, 
and schoolmasters had to be over-persuaded. But the 
present incumbent yielded early, with becoming reluctance, 
to what seemed to be the general desire. The eagerly ex- 
pected morning came at last. Many who knew that the 
circus was lingering at Colonel Grice’s went forth to meet 
it, some on foot, some on horseback. Some started even in 


250 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


gigs and other carriages, but, being warned by old people, 
turned, unhooked their horses, and hitched them to swing- 
ing limbs in the very farthest part of the graveyard grove, 
and then set out on foot. The great show had put fore- 
most its best wagon, but nobody had any sort of idea what 
things those were which the military gentlemen who rode 
in it carried in their hands. One person, known generally 
to carry a cool head, said that one of these things looked 
to him like a drum, though of a size comparatively enor- 
mous, but the idea was generally scorned. 

Where you goin’ there. Poll Ann?” said Mrs. Watts 
to her little daughter, who was opening the gate. My 
Lord!” exclaimed the mother instantly afterward, as the 
band struck up. Then she rushed out herself and ran over r 
Polly Ann, knocking her down. Polly Ann got up again 
and followed. “Stay behind there, you. Jack, and you, 
Susan! You want to git eat up by them camels and var- 
mints? I never see sich children for cur’osity. TheyVe 
got as much cur’osity as — as — ” 

“ As we have,” said Mrs. Thompson, laughing, as she at- 
tempted in vain to drive back her own little brood. 

The effect of the music in the long, covered wagon, 
drawn by six gray horses slowly before the long procession, 
no words can describe. It put all, the aged and the young, 
into a tremor. Old Mr. Leadbetter, one of the deacons, 
who had been very “jubous,” as he said, about the whole 
thing, was trying to read a chapter somewhere in Romans, 
when, at the very first blast, his spectacles jumped off his 
nose, and he told a few of the brethren afterward, confi- 
dentially, that he never could recollect, afterward, where 
he had left off. As for Mrs. Bland, she actually danced 
in her piazza for, probably, as many as a dozen bars, and, 
when “ had up ” in church about it, pleaded in abatement 
that she did it entirely unbeknownst to herself, and that she 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


251 


couldn’t have holp it if it had been to save her life. It 
might have gone hard with the defendant had not some of 
her triers been known to march in time to the band, and, be- 
sides, they had stayed after the close of the animal show, 
contrary to the special inhibition against the circus. For 
the World-renowned had provided against the scruples of 
the straitest sects by attaching to itself a small menagerie of 
animals, whose exhibition had been appointed for the open- 
ing. There were a camel, a lion, a zebra, a hyena, two 
leopards, a porcupine, six monkeys, a bald eagle, and some 
parrots. By some means, never fully known, the most 
scrupulous of the spectators had gotten (late during this 
first act) to the very loftiest and remotest seats in the am- 
phitheater, and when the animals were shut from the view, 
these persons, though anxious, were unable to retire with- 
out stepping over the shoulders of those beneath — a thing 
that no decent person could be expected to do. So Mrs. 
Bland got off with a mild rebuke. 

As the cavalcade proceeded, it was a sight to see those 
who came in late in vehicles hastily turning in, apprehen- 
sive of the effect upon their horses of the music and the 
smell of the wild animals. For the first and only time in 
the history of Dukesborough there was momentary danger 
of a blockade of wheels in its one street. 

A leetle more,” said old Tony to the other negroes at 
home that night — he was the driver of the Booker car- 
riage — ‘‘a leetle more, and I’d a driv’ right inter the 
camel’s mouth.” 

For some reason, possibly its vast size and the peculiar 
dip of its under-lip in the pictures, the camel seemed to be 
regarded as the most carnivorous of the wild beasts, and 
especially fond of human flesh. 

The place selected for the tent was the area west of 
Sweep’s shoe-shop, at the foot of the hill on which the 


252 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


Basil mansion stood. When the door was opened at last, 
the crowd surged in. Colonel Grice waited long, in order 
to see that no one of any condition was excluded for want 
of the entrance-fee. For at last this was regarded by him 
rather as a treat of his own to his neighbors, and he wanted 
it to be complete. Then he walked in with the deliberate- 
ness of an owner of the establishment, and contemplated 
everything with benignant complaisance. Those ladies and 
gentlemen who were within the sound of his voice, as he 
went the rounds of the boxes containing the animals, were 
fortunate. 

“ Be keerful there, boys — be keerful,” he said kindly but 
seriously to some little fellows who were leaning against the 
rope and studying the porcupine. “ Be keerful. That’s 
the cilibrated pockapine. You see them sharp things on 
him? Well, them’s his quills, and which, wen he’s mad, he 
shoots ’em like a bow-’narrow, and they goes clean through 
people.” 

The boys backed, although the little creature looked as 
if his quiver had been well-nigh exhausted in previous wars. 

That’s the hyner,” said the colonel, moving on, and 
they say he’s the most rhinocerous varmint of ’em all. Of 
all victuals he loves folks the best, though he some rather 
that somebody or something else would kill ’em, and then 
him come on about a week or sich a matter arfterward. 
They scratches up graveyards, and in the countries where 
they raise, people has to bury their kinfolks in stone 
coffins.” 

Oh, goodness gracious, colonel! Let’s go on!” 

This exclamation was made by Miss Angeline Spouter, 
the thinnest of the party, who was locked arm in arm with 
Miss Georgiana Pea, the thickest. 

“No danger. Miss Angeline — no danger at all,” an- 
swered the colonel, briskly raising his arm aloft that all 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


253 


might see what was between them and the beast, at which 
he looked as if it were his own pet hyena and would not 
think of leaving its lair without his order. ''No danger 
whatsomever. Even if he could git out, he’d have to ride 
over me, and, '‘besides, it’s mostly corpses that he’d be 
arfter, and — ah — I don’t think, anyway, that you^d be in 
the slightest danger.” 

As he said this, the colonel looked rather argumenta- 
tively, and at Miss Pea more than Miss Spouter. 

" Oh,” said Miss Pea gayly, " if the creetur could git 
out, and then took a notion for live folks, I’d be the one 
he’d make for, certain sure.” 

The hyena, though ugly and ferocious, did not look at his 
spectators once, but continued pacing up and down in his 
narrow cage, at either end of which, when reaching it, he 
thrust his snout against the roof, as if his thoughts were 
tending upward rather than downward. I have never 
forgotten how unhappy seemed that poor beast. To all 
the other animals there was some relief of captivity in their 
various degrees of domestication and affiliation with man. 
The lion evidently loved his keeper; even the leopards 
seemed rather fond of him. But the hyena, more narrowly 
caged than all, conquered, not subdued, wholly untamed, 
constantly rolling his fiery gray eyes, appeared to have his 
thoughts ever upon revenge and escape to his native wilds. 
I, a young child, could not but pity him ; and it occurred 
to me then that if ever he should become free, and be 
tempted, at least, to an appetizer of living human flesh be- 
fore reaching the graveyard, he most likely would fasten 
upon the manager of the Great World-renowned. 

Just as the party was about to pass on, the wretched 
beast, stopping for a moment, his snout pressed to the 
roof, uttered several short, loud, hoarse, terrific howls. 
Miss Spouter screamed. Miss Pea laughed hysterically, 


254 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


and Colonel Grice, before he knew it, was on the outside 
of his knot of followers. Recovering himself — for he was 
without his sword and pistol-holster — he stepped quickly 
back to the front, looked threateningly, and afterward dis- 
dainfully, at the hyena, who had resumed his walks, and 
said : 

You rhinocerous varmint, you! Thinkin^ of them grave- 
yards youVe robbed, and hungry for some more of ^em, 
ah! These is live folks, my boy; and they ain’t quite 
ready for you yit, nor won’t be for some time, I hope.” 
Then he led on to the monkeys. 


CHAPTER III. 

** Hello, Bill! I knowed you’d be here ; got your boys 
with you, too, I see.” 

The person addressed by Colonel Grice was a tall, stout 
young farmer. Over his other clothes he wore a loosely 
fitting round jacket, of thick, home-made stuff, with capa- 
cious pockets. In each of these were one foot and a con- 
siderable portion of a leg of a child about two years old. 
Their other feet rested easily in the man’s hands, which 
were tucked up for that purpose, while one arm of each 
was around his neck. The children were exactly alike, ex- 
cept a shade’s difference in the color of their eyes. This 
was Mr. Bill Williams, who, three years before, had been 
married to Miss Caroline Thigpen. At this double birth, 
Mr. Williams was proud and even exultant. Out of the 
many names suggested for the twins, he early selected 
those of the renowned offspring of Mars and Rhea Sylvia. 
Modifying them, however, somewhat for his own reasons, 
he called and so wrote them in his Bible, Romerlus ” and 
Remerlus.” 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


255 


*^Repnus, Mr. Bill,” urged the friend who had suggested 
the names. Remus, Remulus : Romulus and Remus 
are the names.” 

'"No, Philip,” he answered, ^‘it’s Romerlus and Remer- 
lus. One’s jest as old as t’other, or nigh and about ; and 
he’s as big, and he’s as good-lookin’, and his brother’s name 
shan’t be no bigger’n hisn.” 

As soon as they were able to stand without harm, he ac- 
customed them to this mode of travel, and he was never 
so contented as when he and they went out thus together. 

I knowed you’d be here. Bill, and your boys.” 

Yes, kurnel, I thought cornin’ to see the beastesses and 
varmints might sort o’ be a start to ’em in jography. You, 
Rom — you, Reme, you needn’t squeeze me so tight. They 
ain’t no danger in f/ie/n things.” 

The children, plucky for their age, and with considerable 
experience in travel, had gone easily enough thus far ; but 
when they looked upon these creatures, so like, yet so un- 
like, mankind, they shrank from the view, and clung closely 
to their father. Colonel Grice, recovered from the em- 
barrassment occasioned by the hyena, was pleased at the 
apprehension of the twins. 

Natchel, Bill, perfec’ly natchel. You know some folks 
says monkeys is kin to us, and the boys, mebbe, don’t like 
the looks of their relations.” 

They ain’t no kin o’ mine, kumel, nor theirn,” answered 
Mr. Bill. “ Ef you think they’re humans, supposin’ you — 
as you hain’t no children of your own — supposin’ you adop’ 
one of ’em? ” 

Mr. Bill suspected that he might be alluding to the fabled 
she-wolf. The colonel, however, had never heard of the 
distinguished originals of Roman story. His remark was a 
mere jeu d^esprit^ springing naturally from the numerous 
sources of satisfaction of the occasion. 

17 


256 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The wild beasts were finally hidden from view, and all 
repaired to their seats. Colonel Grice sat high, and near 
the entrance of the rear tent from which the circus per- 
formers were to emerge. Mr. Williams sat^ on the lowest 
tier, near the main entrance. He had taken his boys out 
of his pockets and held them on his knees. The colonel, 
when he could get an opportunity, quietly, and in a very 
pleasant way, called the ringmaster’s attention to him, who 
smiled and nodded. Then the curtain was pushed aside 
from the rear tent, the band struck up, and the piebald 
horses came marching in with their silent riders, who, at 
first, looked as if they had just come from the bath, and 
had had time for only a limited toilet. Old Miss Sally 
Cash, cousin and close neighbor of Colonel Grice, ex- 
claimed : 

Lor’-a-mercy, Mose! Them ain’t folks, is they? 
Them’s wax figgers, ain’t they? ” 

I assure you. Cousin Sally, that they’re folks,” answered 
the colonel, with marked candor. He had great respect 
for his cousin Sally, and some awe. 

I thought they was wax figgers, sot on springs. They 
ain’t like no folks that I’ve ever saw, and I’ve saw a good 
many people in my time, both here and in Augusty.” It 
was one of Miss Cash’s boasts, which few countrywomen 
of that generation could make, that she had once been to 
that famous city. After a short interval, she added : I 
b’lieve yit they’re wax figgers.” 

At that moment the clown, all spotted and streaked, 
bringing up the rear, shouted : 

Here we all are, my masters.” 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


257 


My Lord-a’mighty ! ” exclaimed Miss Cash and some 
three hundred other females. Only Colonel Grice, and a 
very few others, who had been at yesterday’s exhibition, 
could preserve any amount of coolness. The rest aban- 
doned themselves to unlimited wonder. 

‘Tm sixty-nine years old,” said old Mr. Pate, ^"and I 
never see sich as that before, and I never ’spected to see 
sich as that.” 

As they made their involutions and evolutions, destined, 
apparently, to be endless in number and variety, the old 
man looked on as if in his age he was vouchsafed the wit- 
ness of the very last and highest achievement of human 
endeavor. 

Do you think that’s decent, Mose? ” asked Miss Cash. 
The performers were then in the act of the “ ground and 
lofty tumbling,” turning somersaults forward, backward, 
over one another, lying on their backs, throwing up their 
legs, and springing to their feet, etc., until they were pant- 
ing and blue in the face. 

I shouldn’t say it was ondecent, Cousin Sally.” 

I don’t say it is,” said Miss Cash. 

You know,” said the colonel, winking slyly to his wife, 
and other friends of both sexes, nobody is obleeged to stay 
and see the show. Anybody can go that wants to. They 
ain’t no law agin goin’, if anybody’s desires is to git away.” 

No,” answered Miss Cash, downright. I’ve paid my 
half a dollar, and they sha’n’t cheat me out of it, nor nary 
part of it.” 

The next scene was one which Colonel Grice had 
eagerly anticipated. A steed rushed into the ring. He 
was as wild, apparently, as Mazeppa’s, and the clown, 
when the ring-master inquired for the rider, answered, in a 
pitiful tone, that he was sick, and none other of the U'otipe 
would dare to take his place. Then followed the usual fun 


25 ^ 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


of the master ordering the clown to ride the horse, and 
the clown, after vain remonstrance, trying to catch the 
horse, and the horse refusing to be caught ; and, finally, the 
giving up the chase, and the master lashing the recusant 
beast around the ring, and wishing in vain for a rider to set 
him off properly. In the midst of this an extremely drunken 
young man, homely clad, came through the main entrance, 
after a dispute and a scuffle with the door-keeper, and, stag- 
gering to where Mr. Bill Williams sat, looked down upon him. 

'' Two babies. One [Jiic) yours, s’pose.” 

Yes,” said Mr. Bill. 

^'And (hie) t’other — ” 

My wife’s ; but that ain’t nobody’s business but oum. 
You pass on.” 

The stranger declined, and fixing his muddled attention 
on what was going on in the ring, said : 

I can (hie) ride that horse — ” 

The words were no sooner uttered than the man 
stumbled upon the track, just after the horse had dashed 
past. The whole audience, except Colonel Grice and the 
select few, rose and cried out in horror. 

“ Take him out. Bill ! Take him out ! ” cried Colonel 
Grice. Indeed, Mr. Bill had already slid his babies into 
his wife’s lap, and was dragging the man out of the ring. 

He insisted upon returning. 

Look a-here, my friend,” said Mr. Bill, I don’t know 
you, nor nobody else don’t seem to know you ; but if I 
didn’t have Rom and Reme — ” 

The fellow made another rush. Mr. Bill took hold of 
him, but, receiving a trip, he fell flat, and the stranger 
sprawled into the ring, rolling out of the track in lucky 
time. The ring-master seemed much embarrassed. 

Oh, give him a little ride, captain! ” cried out Colonel 
Grice. If he falls, he’s too drunk to git badly hurt.” 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


259 


''It’s a shame, Mose! ” remonstrated Miss Cash. "I 
didn’t come here and pay my money to see people killed. 
Notwithstandin’ and never o’-the-less the poor creeter’s 
drunk, and not hardly fitten to live, he ought by good rights 
to have some time to prepar’ for the awful change that — ” 

But by this time Mazeppa was mounted and dashing 
away ; and, but that Miss Cash had made up her mind not 
to be cheated out of any portion of her money, she would 
have shut her eyes, or veiled her face, as the maddened 
animal sped along, while the infatuated inebriate clung to 
his mane. An anxious time it was. Kind-hearted people 
were sorry they had come. In the struggle between life 
and death, the stranger seemed to be beginning to sober. 
Sooner than could have been expected, he raised himself 
from the horse’s neck (Miss Cash twisting her mouth and 
screwing her neck as he reeled back and forth from side to 
side), gathered up the reins, shook from his feet the thick 
shoes he was clad with, flung aside his old hat, brushed up 
his curly hair, arid, before Miss Cash could utter a word, 
was on his feet. Then began that prolonged metamorpho- 
sis which old Mr. Pate was never satisfied with recount- 
ing, whether to those who saw it or those who saw it not. 

“ Coat arfter coat, breeches arfter breeches, gallis arfter 
gallis, shirt after shirt, ontwell he shucked hisself nigh as 
clean as a ear o’ com.” 

When everybody saw that the stranger was one of the 
showmen, the fun rose to a height that delayed for full five 
minutes the next scene. As for Colonel Grice, his hand- 
kerchief was positively wet with the tears he shed. Even 
Mr. Bill forgot his own discomfiture in the universal glee. 

" It’s a shame, Mose,” said Miss Cash, " to put such a 
trick on Bill Williams, and that right where his wife is. It 
would be a good thing if he could put it back on you.” 

Even at this late day, a survivor of that period can 


26 o 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


scarcely recall without some exaltation of feeling that young 
girl of eleven (who had been advertised as “ Mademoiselle 
Louise, the Most Celebrated Equestrienne in the World 
as she ran out with the daintiest of frocks, the pinkest of 
stockings, the goldenest of flounces, the bluest of belts, the 
curliest of hair, the peachiest of cheeks, kissed her hand to 
the audience, put one foot into the clown’s hand, and flew 
into the saddle. As she went around, dancing upon that 
horse in full gallop, hopping over her whip and jumping 
through rings, and, when seated, smoothed down her skirt 
and waved her sleeveless arms — well, there was one boy 
(his name was Seaborn Byne) that declared he would be 
dinged if it wasn’t enough to melt the hearts clean outen a 
statchit.” Other boys cordially indorsed this speech. As 
for Jack Watts, just turned of his tenth year, he ran away 
from home the next morning, and followed for three miles 
the circus, begging to be taken into its employ, stipulat- 
ing for only board and clothes. When caught, brought 
back, and properly attended to by his mother, the villain 
was suspected, and almost as good as confessed, that his 
purpose was to avail himself of an opportunity to seize 
upon the person of Mademoiselle Louise and her imagined 
vast treasures, and bear them to some distant foreign shore 
— on which one in special, in his exigent haste, he had not 
yet been able fully to determine. 


CHAPTER V. 

In the interval before the last, named ^^The Wonderful 
Tooth-drawing Coffee-pot Firecracker Scene,” an incident 
occurred that was not on the programme — an interlude, as 
it were, improvised by the exuberant spirits of both spec- 
tators and showmen. Colonel Grice, deeply gratified at 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


261 


the success of what, without great stretch, might be called 
his own treat, was in the mood to receive special attention 
and compliment from any source. When the pretended 
inebriate had been lifted upon Mazeppa, the clown took a 
bottle from his pocket, tasted it when he had gotten behind 
his master, smacked his lips, set it down by the middle pole, 
and, being detected in one of his resortings to it, was re- 
proached for not inviting some one to drink with him. They 
were on the portion of the ring next the main entrance. 

Why don’t you invite Colonel Grice?” said Mr. Bill 
Williams, in a low voice. He expects it.” 

The master turned to notice from whom the suggestion 
proceeded, and, before he could determine, the clown, 
though with some hesitation, said : 

If Colonel Grice — ” 

'^Stop it! ” whispered the master. 

But it was too late. The colonel had already risen, and 
was carefully descending. 

Is you goin’ there, Mose, shore enough?” said Miss 
Cash. It do look like Mose is complete carried away 
with them circus people and hisself.” 

Having gotten safely over the intervening heads and 
shoulders, the colonel stepped with dignity into the ring, at 
the same time feeling somewhat of the embarrassment 
which will sometimes befall the very greatest warrior when, 
without his weapons, he knows himself to be the object of 
the attention of a large number of civilians, both male and 
female. This embarrassment hindered his observation of 
the captain’s winks, and the clown’s pouring a portion of 
the liquor upon the ground. He walked up rapidly and 
extended his hand. The clown, with an effort at mirthful- 
ness, the more eager because he was doubtful of perfect 
success, withdrew the bottle from his grasp, spread out his 
legs, squatted his body, and, applying the thumb of his dis- 


262 DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 

engaged hand to his nose, wriggled his fingers at the col- 
onel’s face, winking frantically the while, hoping the latter 
would advance the joke by insistence. 

In this he miscalculated. Persons who claimed to have 
seen Colonel Moses Grice, on previous occasions, what was 
called mad^ said that all these were mere childish fretfulness 
compared with his present condition of mind, when, after 
the withdrawal of the bottle, the whole audience. Miss Cash 
louder than all, broke into uproarious laughter. Fortu- 
nately the enraged chieftain had nor sword, nor pistol, nor 
even walking-cane. His only weapon was his tongue. 
Stepping back a pace or two, and glaring upon the ludi- 
crous squatter, he shouted : 

''You spotted-back, striped-legged, streaked-faced, 
speckled-b-breasted, p’inted-hatted son-of-a-gun ! ” 

With each ejaculation of these successive, uncommon ap- 
pellations, the poor clown lifted himself somewhat, and, by 
the time their climax was reached, was upright, and, dressed 
as he was, seemed most pitiful. 

" My dear Colonel Grice — ” he began. 

" Shet up your red mouth,” broke in the colonel. " I didn’t 
want your whiskey. I got better whiskey at home than 
you know anything about. But as you ast me to drink, 
like, as I thought, one gentleman would ask another gentle- 
man, I didn’t feel like refusin’ you. I give the whole of 
you your breakfast, your blasted varmints and all ; I put 
at least twenty into your cussed show, and arfter that — ” 

"My dear-est Colonel Grice! ” 

" Oh, you p’inted-hatted, streaked-fac-ed, speckled-b- 
breasted — ” beginning, as it were, a back-handed stroke 
by reversing the order of his epithets. 

At this moment the ring-master, who had not been able 
thus far to get in a single word, said in a loud but calm tone : 

" Colonel Grice, don’t you see that it was a mere jest, 


COLONEL MOSES GRICE. 


263 


" and that the suggestion came from one of your neighbors? 
The bottle contains nothing but water. We beg your par- 
don if you are offended ; but I can but think that the abu- 
sive words you have used already are quite enough.” 

"'Come, Mose! come, Mose!” cried Miss Cash, who 
had just been able to stop her laughter. Give and take, 
Mose. You put it on to Bill Williams, and he stood it; 
and he put it back on to you, and now you can’t stand it, 
eh? ” And the old lady again fairly screamed with laughter, 
while hundreds of others joined. 

The colonel stood for a moment, hesitating. Then he 
suddenly turned, and, remarking that this was no place for 
a gentleman, walked toward the entrance. 

‘‘You goin’ to let ’em cheat you out of the balance of 
your money that way, Mose? ” asked Miss Cash. He 
turned again. Finding himself wholly without support, 
and unwilling to lose the great scene of the “ Tooth-draw- 
ing,” etc., he halted and stood until it was over. By that 
time he was considerably mollified, and the manager, ap- 
proaching, apologized for himself, the clown, and all his 
troupe^ and begged that he would join in a glass of the 
genuine at Spouter’s tavern. 

How could the colonel refuse? He could not, and he 
did not. 

“ Go with us, won’t you, sir? ” said the manager, address- 
ing Mr. Williams. “ We had some little fun at your expense 
also ; but I hope you bear us no malice, as we never intend 
to hurt feelings.” 

“Sperrits,” answered Mr. Bill, “is a thing I sildom 
teches — that is, I don’t tech it reglar; but I’ll try a 
squirrel-load with you — jes’ a moderate size squirrel-load.” 

At Spouter’s all was cordially made up. Mr. Bill set 
Rom and Reme on the counter, and the clown gave them 
a big lump of white sugar apiece. 


264 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


They seem to be nice, peaceable little fellows,” said he. 

Do they ever dispute? ” 

Oh, no great deal,” answered Mr. Bill. Sometimes 
Rom — that’s the bluest-eyed one — he wants to have all his 
feed before Reme gits any o’ hisn, and he claws at the 
spoon and Rome’s nose. But when he does that I jes’ set 
him right down, I does, and I makes him wait ontwell 
Rome’s fed. I tends to raise ’em to be peaceable, and to 
give and take, and to be friends as well as brothers, which 
is mighty fur from bein’ always the case in families.” 

Mr. Bill knew that Colonel Grice and his younger brother 
Abram had not spoken together for years. 

Right, Bill,” said the colonel. Raise ’em right. Take 
keer o’ them boys. Bill. Two at a time comes right hard 
on a fellow, though, don’t it. Bill? Expensive, eh? ” and 
the colonel winked pleasantly all around. 

Thank ye, kurnel ; I’ll do the best I can. I shall raise 
’em to give and take. No, kurnel, not so very hard. Fact, 
I wa’n’t a-expectin’ but one, yit, when Reme come, I 
thought jest as much o’ him as I did o’ Rom. No, kurnel, 
it wouldn’t be my desires to be a married man and have 
nary ar — to leave what little prop’ty I got to. And now, 
sence I got two instid o’ one, and them o’ the same size, I 
feel like I’d be sort o’ awk’ard ’ithout both of ’em. You 
see, they balances agin one another in my pockets. No, 
kurnel, better two than nary one ; and in that way you can 
larn ’em better to give and take. Come, Rom, come, 
Reme — git in; we must be a-travelin’.” He backed up 
to the counter, and the boys, shifting their sugar-lumps to 
suit, stepped aboard, and away they went. 

After that day Dukesborough thought she could see no 
reason why she might not be named among the leading 
towns of Middle Georgia. 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


** And thus it is to reign.’’ 


CHAPTER I. 

I THINK it well to announce, right in the beginning of 
this story, that Miles Bunkly is not properly its hero, 
though some preliminary things must be told concerning 
him. Although Miles had loved Miss Caroline Thigpen 
long before Mr. Bill Williams courted her, yet he never had 
told her so in set words, until — well, you may say it was 
too late. Yet everybody was surprised. Miles was a most 
excellent young man, industrious, sober, thrifty, fond of 
laying up, and had a right good deal laid up already. 
Then he was quite passable as to looks. Mr. Bill could 
not have been said, even by Miss Thigpen, to have any 
advantage of Miles as to looks. As for the rest, all except 
Miss Thigpen and his own mother considered him the in- 
ferior. Yet Dukesborough manners, or something else, 
put him in the lead on his first entry upon the field. It was 
then, and not till then, that Miles BiTnkly made one, and 
but one, avowed effort, and, failing, gave up the contest, 
and resigned himself to what he called moloncholly . 

He had never been — at least he had never seemed to 


266 


BUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


be — a cheerful-minded person anyway. His courtship even 
had been a rather solemn piece of business, and the final 
declaration sounded somewhat as if he had invited Miss 
Thigpen to go with him to the graveyard instead of taking 
charge of his domestic affairs. The lady, after gently de- 
clining his suit, and claiming the privilege of regarding him 
as a friend — nay, a brother — announced her intention of 
ever keeping his proposal a secret, and requested him to 
do the same. 

''No, ma'am,’^ said Miles; "no. Miss Karline. I shall 
not deny it, nor I shall not deny it. I’m much obleeged to 
you, and I shall be a friend to you and to yourn. The 
waound is in my heart, and it’ll stay thar, and it’ll be 
obleeged to stay thar, but I’ll be a friend to you and yourn.” 

On his way home he called to his neighbor and friend 
Abram Grice, who was standing in his door : 

" Mawnin’, Abom.” 

" Mawnin’, Miles. ’Light and come in.” 

" Step out here a minute, Abom, ef you please.” 

Mr. Grice came out to the gate, 

" Kicked, Abom.” 

"Kicked, Miles? Who?” 

" Me.” 

" Kicked bad, Miles? ” 

" Powerful.” 

" Your horse. Miles, or a mule, or a steer? ” 

" Nary one. It’s here, Abom.” 

Then he laid his hand broadly on his breast. 

"In the stomach. Miles? Bad place to git kicked. 
What in the thunder kicked you ’way up thar? Git down ; 
come in and take a drink, and tell me about it afterward.” 

" It’s not my stomach, Abom ; it’s my bres. The 
waound’s inside — 'way inside. Sperrits wouldn’t do it no 
good ; they wouldn’t retch it.” 

\ 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 267 

goodness gracious! Miles Bunkly, what in the 
dickens is the matter with you? ” 

“ I've been yonder, Abom,” and he pointed mournfully 
toward the Thigpens’, “ and my desires is to tell no lies. 
I got it from a human person over thar, and that not of 
the sect of a man person.” 

“Who? — Miss Karline?” 

“ Ef I was to name the name, Abcm, that were the name 
I should name.” 

Mr. Grice shouted with laughter. 

“ Miles Bunkly, you skeered me out of a year’s growth. 
I thought you been kicked by a whole team o’ mules, or 
at least a yoke o’ steers. Well, look here, you ain’t a-goin’ 
to stand it ? ” 

“ It’s done done, Abom.” 

“Yes, but I’ve knowed sich as that ^7;/done. Why, 
Sarann kicked me three times han’ runnin’ ; but I told her 
every time she done it that sich talk as that didn’t phaze me. 
That’s women. Miles. Them’s their ways. They ain’t 
a-goin’ to let a fellow know, not at the first offstart, that 
they goin’ to have him. I don’t know what it’s for, ’ithout 
it’s jest natchelly to try to git the whip-hand of him at the 
start. It’s the natchel instinc’ of the woman sect. You 
go back to Karline Thigpen, and don’t let on that you 
’member anything about her kickin’ of you, and that you 
ain’t even phazed by it. You’re sorter slow, old fellow — 
that is, in sich motions — ^but Karline Thigpen got too much 
sense to give up sich a chance.” 

“ ’Mother person, Abom,” replied Miles, most mournfully — 
“ ’nother person, of the male sect.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“ William Williams.” 

“Who? Bill Williams? ” exclaimed Mr. Grice, in aston- 
ishment and disgust. 


268 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


That’s the name of the name, Abom.” 

Well, Miles Bunkly, ef you can’t whip out Bill Williams, 
even with his Dukesborough ways he got by livin’ in town 
six months, all I got to say is you ought to git kicked by a 
yoke o’ steers, and run over by the keart in the bargain.” 

Such and similar remonstrances were ineffectual to make 
Mr. Bunkly continue the contest. He retired at once, 
leaving the field to his rival. At the wedding, though he 
did not join in the dance, nor even in the plays, yet he par- 
took sufficiently, it was thought, of meats, cakes, and sylla- 
bub. Mr. Bill and Miss Karline, her brother Allen and his 
young bride Betsan, were specially attentive to his wants. 
He yielded with profound sadness to their persistent offer- 
ings of good things, and the more syllabub he took, the 
mournfuller grew his deportment. To several persons, 
mainly elderly, he said during the evening that it was the 
moloncholiest of all days to him. 

Yit, furthersomemore,” he would add, with touching 
unselfishness, '^ef her who is now Missis Karline Williams, 
and who were Miss Karline Thigpen, be it her or be it 
hern, ef her or them might ever want for anything which it 
might be her and their good rights or their desires, and ef 
then I’m a-livin’ — ^providin’, you understand, I’m a-livin’ — 
they shall have it, ef it’s in my retch.” 


CHAPTER II. 

Some four years passed. Mr. Bunkly, though plunged 
in his dear melancholy, yet attended punctually to his busi- 
ness in a gloomy, slow, sure way, made good crops, sold 
at good times, added to his land and plantation stock, and, 
claiming to despise wealth, heaped it up more and more, 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


269 


as if to show, evidently, how vain are earthly goods for the 
happiness of a man in whose breast is an incurable wound. 

Mr. Bill Williams was getting along, too, better than had 
been expected and prophesied. Much of the exuberant 
vivacity contracted by several months’ residence in town 
had subsided in these four years of living with a wife (a 
settled ’oman, he styled her) who was probably the most 
industrious in the neighborhood. He well knew that every- 
body believed Miss Thigpen to have made a mistake in 
preferring himself to Miles Bunkly, and he had said at the 
beginning of his conjugal career that he should take it upon 
himself to convince the world that it was mistaken. When 
his twin sons, Romerlus and Remerlus, were born and 
named, he felt that he was making reasonable headway on 
that ambitious road. Then he too had added somewhat to 
his estate, and his wife had picked up many a dollar by 
her extra work. They did not rise as rapidly as Miles, 
but Miles remained but one, while Mr. Bill, so to speak, 
had been two, and now he was four. People cannot ignore 
figures in such calculations, especially when they represent 
mouths. Never mind, thought Mr. Bill — never mind. 
Thus the contemplation of a former rival, with whom, how- 
ever, he was on the friendliest of terms, spurred a nature 
that otherwise might have been wanting in the energy be- 
coming the head of a family. 

Only one thing interfered with the happiness of that 
rising family, and that was becoming serious. It would 
sting the wife painfully sometimes when she would hear of 
the practical jokes put upon her husband, who had become 
rather liable thereto by what was considered in the neigh- 
borhood his too great forwardness of speech and other de- 
portment. Too great a talker, as from the very first she 
had told him he was, she would tell him further that a man 
who got into scrapes ought to get out of them. In these 


270 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


four years he had sobered much under that benign influence. 
Yet when a man has once been the butt of neighborhood 
ridicule, it requires time to release him even when he has 
ceased to deserve it. Sometimes it seems that the only 
way to obtain such release is to fight for it. That exi- 
gency, in the opinion of Mrs. Williams, had now arrived. 

One night, when the children had been put to bed, she 
said, '' William, youVe got to whip somebody.” 

She spoke pointedly. 

Mr. Bill looked behind him at the trundle-bed, and asked 
himself, Is it Rom, or is it Reme? ” 

Nary one,” was the audible answer. It’s somebody 
bigger’n them, harder to whip, and a more deservin’ of it.” 

Then Mr. Bill peered through the window into the outer 
darkness, and speculated if there were insubordination 
among his little lot of negroes. 

'^Nor them neither. It’s white folks; it’s Mose Grice, 
that’s who it is, and it’s nobody else — that is, to start with.” 

Mr. Bill was startled. Colonel Grice had, indeed, been 
extremely rough with Mr. Bill on several occasions, and 
especially since the day of the circus repeatedly ridiculed 
the father of the twins. Yet he was a man of means, a 
considerable fighter, and colonel of the regiment. So Mr. 
Bill was obliged to be startled, and he looked at his wife. 

You’ve been joked by Mose Grice, William, and poked 
fun at, and made game of by him, until / don’t feel like 
standin’ of it no longer, nor I don’t think Rom and Reme 
would feel like standin’ of it, not if they were big enough 
and had sense enough to understan’ his impudence.” 

Why, Karline — ” remonstrated Mr. Bill. 

Oh, you needn’t be a-Karlinin’ o’ me! ” she said. And 
never before had Mrs. Williams addressed her husband in 
precisely that language. But her feelings had been hurt, 
and allowance ought to be made. She cried somewhat, 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


271 

but tears did not serve at once to produce the softening in- 
fluence that is their legitimate result. 

“ There’s brother Allen,” she continued, and which 
Betsan told me herself that Allen told her that the fact of 
the business was, if you didn’t make Mose Grice keep his 
mouth shet, ’specially about Rom and Reme, he would; 
and then there’s Miles Bunkly — ” 

Oh, Lordie ! ” exclaimed Mr. Bill. 

There’s Miles Bunkly, and which Betsan say is about 
as mad as brother, and which, ef he ain't any fighter, yit, 
when Mose Grice was one day a-makin’ game of him about 
his moloncholy. Miles told him that his moloncholy was 
his business and not hisn, and that if he kept on meddlin’ 
with it, he’mout ketch the disease, and Mose Grice let 
Miles Bunkly ’s moloncholy alone, he did.” 

And then,” Mr. Bill said afterward, Karline sot up a 
cry, she dfd, and it woke up Rom and Reme, and they sot 
up a howl apiece, and I says to myself. I’ll stan’ a whippin* 
from Mose Grice rather’n run agin sich as this.” 


CHAPTER III. 

After that night Mrs. Williams did not again allude to 
its matter of conversation, and was as affectionate to her 
husband as always. Mr. Bill gloried in the possession of 
her, and he had good reason. He brooded and brooded. 
The allusion to Miles Bunkly stung him deeply, usually 
imperturbable as his temper was, though not a jot of jeal- 
ousy was in the pang. He would have known himself to 
be the greatest of fools to feel that. Yet, easy-going, self- 
satisfied as he was, he knew that other people, including 
his brother-in-law, still regarded his wife less fortunate than 
she might have been. The more Mr. Bill brooded, the 


272 


DUKE^BOROUGH TALES. 


more serious appeared to him the relation of his case to 
that of several others, especially Colonel Grice. 

Superadded to a general disposition to impose upon 
whomsoever would endure him, Colonel Grice had a spite 
against Mr. Bill on account of the friendship that, since the 
intermarriage with Miss Thigpen, had grown up between 
him and Abram Grice, the colonePs younger brother, whose 
relations with himself were not only not fraternal, but hos- 
tile. The colonel was a fighter, and had managed some- 
how always to come victorious out of combat ; for he was 
a man of powerful build, and of great vigor and activity. 
Some, indeed, had often said that he knew whom to en- 
counter and whom not. His position of head of the regiment 
had been obtained at a time when military ardor, after a 
long peace, had subsided, and leading citizens cared not 
for the eclat of the office. He had sought it eagerly, and 
obtained it because there was no strong competitor, and 
especially because his election was expected and intended 
to ridicule and discourage regimental parades. He was 
greatly exalted by his election, and became yet more over- 
bearing whenever he could do so with safety. 

That’s Mose,” said his brother Abram one day to Miles 
Bunkly — “that’s jest him. He’ll impose on anybody 
that’ll let him, and he’ll try it with anybody that he thinks 
likes me. He’s been so from a boy. He imposed on me 
till I got big enough to whip him, which I done a time or 
two, and then he quit it. But he took his revenge on me 
by cheatin’ me out of part o’ the prop’ty, and he done that 
the quicker because he knowed I, bein’ of his brother, 
wouldn’t prosecute him for it. That’s Mose — that’s jest 
him.” 

“ I hate the case, Abom,” answered Miles, “ because I 
has that respects of Karline Williams that it mortify me, 
and make me, so to speak, git moloncholier than what I 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


273 


natchelly am, to see a man that’s her husband, and the 
father, as it were, o’ them two far pinks of boys, runned 
over in the kind o’ style that Mose run over him, nigh and in 
and about every time he come up along of William Williams. 
I never keered no great deal about him^ with them town 
ways o’ his’n, untell he were married to Miss Karline, and 
then I knowed that there was obleeged to be that in William 
Williams which people in general never supposened.” 

“ Ah, Miles, old fellow,” said Abram, “ you ought to took 
that prize, and you’d a done it ef you’d a listened to me, 
and been peerter in your motions, and hilt on longer.” 

No, no, Abom,” answered Miles, his arm giving a 
mournful deprecatory wave. “ It were not my lot. I tried, 
and I tried honest and far. I were not worth of Miss 
Karline, Abom. I didn’t know it, but she did. And yit I 
could see it hurt her to put the waound where she knowed 
it were obleeged to stay. I wasn’t a-supposenen, though, as 
to that, that William were worth of Miss Karline neither. 
But Karline Thigpen — I ain’t a-speakin’ o’ your wife now. 
Abom, and a-leavin’ of her out o’ the case — Karline Thig- 
pen, but which she is now Missis Karline Williams, is the 
smartest woman, and got the best jedgment, I ever saw. 
And sence she have choosed William Williams, I been cer- 
tain in my mind that there were that in William Williams 
that the balance of us never supposened, and which’ll show 
itself some day if William can ever git farly fotch to a right 
pint.” 

Thus that nature, upright, unselfish, simple, fond to per- 
suade itself that it was unhappy, took its chief solace in 
contemplating and magnifying its own disappointments, 
and in sympathizing with those who had been their chief 
occasion. 


274 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was muster-day for the battalion. Colonel Grice 
always felt it his duty to be at these occasions, preparatory 
to the great regimental parade. The exercises, after many 
hours, were coming to an end, as the companies marched, 
with short intervals between, down the one street of the 
village, preparatory to disbandment. Alternately had the 
colonel been complimentary and censorious, as he rode, 
sometimes in a walk, other times at full gallop, up and 
down the lines. 

Peerter, peerter, major,’^ he remonstrated with Major 
Pounds, respectfully indeed, but with a warmth that seemed 
difficult to repress — “ peerter ; make them captains peerten 
up them lines. My blood and thunder! my Juberter and 
Julus Caesar! if the enemy was to come upon us with 
fixted bannets — Oh, you’ve done your part ad;;/izrrably, 
major. It’s them captains.” 

It was just before the final halt that the colonel addressed 
Captain Collins, whose company was in the center, and 
then immediately in front of Bland’s store. '' Ah, Cap’n 
Collins, look to your rar. It’s so fur behind that it look 
like two companies ’stid o’ one. That sergeant o’ yourn 
you’ll have to talk to and drill in private. He’s arfter 
makin’ twins out o’ your company. Sergeant Williams is 
a great man for twins, you know, cap’n. But you better 
tell him to make ’em keep his cubs at home. We want 
solid columes when we come to the field of battle.” 

The warrior enjoyed his jest, that had been heard by all 
in the company, and others besides. But he did not allow 
himself even to smile when at the head of the military forces 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


275 


of his country, in order to keep himself ever on the alert 
against sudden attacks of her enemies. His gloomy brow 
indicated indignation at the thought that a petty subaltern, 
from some vain notion of making his own domestic status 
the model of the nation’s principal means of defense, 
sought to demoralize it, and actually invite invasion. 

“My Lord!” said Allen Thigpen, when they told him, 
“if Bill don’t fight him for that, I will! To think that 
sister Karline’s feelin’s is to be hurt by bearin’ of sich as 
that! ” 

“ I don’t think, Abom,” said Miles (who overheard the 
remark), “ that it can be put off any longer. Ef there’s that 
in William Williams which I been a-supposen is obleeged 
to be thar, he’ll fetch it out now. Now you go right on 
home, Abom.” 

Miles said, afterward, “ My respects of Abom was that 
as he wouldn’t stand up to his brother, it wouldn’t look 
right to be agin’ him.” 

When the battalion was dismissed, Allen walked rapidly 
to Mr. Bill. The latter was wiping the tears from his eyes 
with his handkerchief. Having finished this operation, he 
went with a resolute step toward Bland’s piazza, whither 
Colonel Grice, after dismounting and giving his horse to a 
servant to hold, had repaired. 

“Ah, Mr. Bland,” said the colonel, about to light a 
cigar, “ you peaceful men, you who follow in the peaceable 
ways — departiments, I might ruther say — of dry-goods, 
and hardwar’, and molasses, and blankets, and trace-chains, 
and other sich departiments, so to call all o’ the warious wari- 
eties of a sto’-keeper’s business — you don’t know — I may 
say you don’t dream — Mr. Bland, of the responsuability of 
a military man whose country’s enemies may be at the very 
gates — ” 

“Colonel Grice!” said Mr. Bill Williams, in a tone no- 


276 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


body had ever heard from him before. The colonel turned 
to see who called. Mr. Bill was standing on the ground, 
Allen Thigpen and Miles Bunkly by his side. 

‘‘ Hello, Bill ! ” said the colonel, with careless cordiality. 
‘^What’ll you have, my dear fellow? ” 

'' I'll have satisfaction, sir. I’m not a fightin’ man, and 
I know I have sometimes been keerless in my talk, yit I 
never went to hurt people’s feelings a-purpose, and I always 
helt myself more of a gentleman than to insult women and 
little childern, and which you can’t say for yourself without 
tellin’ a lie, and a fightin’ lie at that.” 

Those words operated the greatest surprise that ever be- 
fell Colonel Moses Grice. Partly in astonishment, partly 
in wrath, and partly in deprecation, he exclaimed : 

What in this wide omnipotent world ! Is the Colonel 
of the Fourteenth Regiment got to study his langwidges — ” 

Come, Mose,” said Miles, slowly but distinctly, “ the 
muster’s over now, and William Williams is your ekal, and 
he is liable to have his satisfaction, onlest you apologizes 
for your langwidges.” 

'' I don’t want his apologies,” said Mr. Bill. I won’t 
have his apologies. He’s got to fight, ’ithout he gits on his 
horse and runs away.” 

I can’t stand that,” said the colonel. Throwing off his 
coat, he came rapidly down the steps to where Mr. Bill, 
similarly stripped, awaited him. 


CHAPTER V. 

Whoever has not seen a combat between two powerful, 
irate men, with no weapons other than those supplied by 
nature, has missed the sight, though he may not regret it. 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


277 


of a thrilling scene. The blows, the grapplings, the strug- 
gles of every kind are as if each combatant had staked 
every dear thing upon the result, and set in to save it or 
die. The advantages on this occasion, except the right, 
were with the colonel. Taller by an inch, though perhaps 
not heavier, agile, practiced, and in the full maturity of 
his physical powers, he had, besides, a contempt for his 
adversary, and expected to prevail speedily. Mr. Bill him- 
self rather counted upon this result ; but he had made up 
his mind that such was preferable to what he would endure 
without an attempt to punish this persistent insulting rail- 
lery. He had never been a participant in a fight of any 
sort ; but he had labored habitually at the heaviest work 
upon his farm, and he had broken, unassisted, many a colt, 
horse, and mule of his famous Molly Sparks — the most 
willful and indocile of dams. He had now the special dis- 
advantage of having been upon his feet during several 
hours of tiresome exercises. 

He’ll try to ride you. Bill,” said Allen hastily, but 
you keep him off. He can fling you, I expect ; but you 
can outlast him in licks. Don’t let him ride you.” 

As the colonel advanced, Mr. Bill — 

But alas! I am not an epic bard, nor even a Pindaric, 
nor is there one whom I can command to duly celebrate 
this combat. Mr. Bowden, the village postmaster, was a 
person somewhat addicted to poetry (reading it, I mean), 
and he was heard to say several times afterward that it 
reminded him, he thought, more than any fight he had ever 
witnessed, of the famous one between Diomede and Mars 
on the plain of Troy. But the schoolmaster, who was a 
Homeric scholar, rather intimated to some of the advanced 
pupils that Mr. Bowden did not seem quite clear in his 
mind which was Mars and which Diomede. For a first 
fight, and that with an experienced antagonist, Mr. Bill 


278 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


conducted himself with surprising dexterity in the giving 
and evasion of blows, and, when evasion was not success- 
ful, with becoming fortitude. It was, however, a tiresome 
business. He showed that, and once, after putting in one 
of his best, wl\pn he was attempting to withdraw himself 
from the return, he had the misfortune to tread upon a 
corn-cob that happened to be lying in his rear. This turn- 
ing beneath him, he lost his balance, and the colonel 
rushing upon him, he fell to the ground upon his left side. 

There, now! said Miles Bunkly. “ Hadn’t been for 
that cornfound corn-cob — ” 

Unable to finish what he would have said, he raised his 
hands on high, and clasped them in intense grief. Whis- 
pering to Allen a few words, he took out his handkerchief 
and covered his eyes for several moments. 

Bill,” said Allen, ” Miles says, hold on as long as you 
can. If you git too badly used up, he’ll help you take 
care o’ Rom and Reme.” 

Then Mr. Bill Williams was worth seeing, though pros- 
trate on the field. These words fell upon his ear with a 
force irresistible. But for Mr. Bowden’s incertitude as to 
the impersonation of those combatants of the heroic age, 
he might have compared these words of Miles to those of 
the goddess, when 

** Raged Tydides, boundless in his ire: 

* Pallas commands, and Pallas lends thee force.’ ” 

As it was, Mr. Bill pronounced the names '"Rom” and 
Reme ” once, then he gave a groan that sounded less a 
groan than a roar. And then, in spite of the superincum- 
bent weight, he suddenly reached . his arm around the 
colonel’s neck, and drew his head to the ground. 

It was said of Miles Bunkly by people of veracity, and 
those who had known him longest and most intimately, that 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


279 


this was the only occasion during life whereon he was 
known to shout. Then, with the mildness yet the solem- 
nity of an experienced good man whose admonitions thereto 
have gone unheeded, he remarked to the colonel, as the 
latter’s body was slowly but inevitably following his head 
beneath Mr. Bill, like the stag in the anaconda’s mouth, 
'' You see how it is, Mose ; I told you, if you didn’t mind, 
you’d ketch the moloncholy yourself some day.” 

The colonel, apparently concluding that the time had 
come, said, as distinctly as he could, Stop it. Bill ; I give 
it up.” 

Let him up. Bill,” said Allen ; you got his word.” 

'' No, sir, not till he’s ’poligized. He’s jest acknowledged 
hisself whipped ; he hain’t ’poligized.” 

‘‘ I’m sorry. Bill, for havin’ hurted your feelin’s and your 
wife’s,” said the colonel. 

So fur so good,” answered Mr. Bill, leisurely stretching 
himself at ease on his foe, as if he would repose after his 
fatigue — '' so fur so good ; but what about Romerlus Will- 
iams and Remerlus Williams? ” He never called the full 
names of his boys except on impressive occasions. 

Come, Bill,” said Allen, taking him by the arm, 
“enough’s enough.” 

Mr. Bill rose with the reluctant air of a man roused from 
a luxurious couch whereon he had been indulging, though 
not to the full, in sweet sleep and sweeter dreams. The 
colonel arose, and, unpitied of all, slunk limping away. 
Miles Bunkly, the tears in his eyes, laid his hands on Mr. 
Bill’s shoulders, and said : 

“ I knowed it were obleeged to be in you, William, ef it 
could be fotch out ; and my respects of a certain person 
was that, that I knowed she’d fetch it out in time. It’s 
done fotch out, and from this time forrards you and yourn 
may go ’long your gayly way down the hill o’ life, and all 


28 o 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


I got to say to you and them, William, is. Go it! And 
now go wash your face and hands, and go dong home to 
happiness and bliss. I don’t say you never deserved ’em 
before, but I do say you deserve ’em now.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

My I ” said Mr. Bill, when he had washed, and was 
feeling the knots and bruises on his face, and trying to 
open his eyes — my 1 but ain’t it tiresome ? I ruther maul 
rails all day ’ithout my dinner, or break two o’ old Molly’s 
colts, mules at that, than to have to go through sich as 
that agin. Thanky, Miles, and come and see a fellow.” 
He bade all adieu, and went on home, where something in 
the bosom of his family awaited him that is worth relating. 
The news having preceded him, his wife, a pious woman, was 
a little troubled in her mind at first for having given to her 
husband the spur to a feeling that was not entirely consistent 
with duty ; yet when they had told her the whole story, she 
rose, laid aside her work, went to her chest, got out her 
very best frock, and every thread of her children’s Sunday 
clothes, including many a ribbon that had survived its 
ancient use, and arrayed herself and them to greet the hero 
upon his return. The whicker of old Molly at the foot of 
the lane, and the answer of the colt in the lot, announced 
the joyous moment. Dismounting at his gate, Mr. Bill 
would fain have indulged his eyes with that goodly sight ; 
but one of them was entirely and the other partially closed. 
He became aware of the rushing into his arms of a person 
of about the size of his wife, and justly guessed to be her, 
and the cries of two children which he rather thought were 
familiar to his ears. For the boys, when they saw their 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 


281 


father all battered and bruised, set up a yelling, and re- 
treated. 

You Rom! youReme!’^ cried the indignant mother, 
laughing the while, '‘if you don’t stop that crying and 
making out like you don’t know your father. I’ll skin you 
both alive! Come back here, and if you as much as 
whimper. I’ll pull off them ribbons, strip you to your shirts, 
and put you to bed without a mouthful for your supper! ” 

They came back, did those boys. 

" Look at him, sirs. Don’t tell me you don’t know him. 
Who is it? ” 

" Pappy,” said Rom, on a venture, followed by Reme. 

"And ain’t he the grandest man that’s a-livin’? ” 

" Eth’m,” said Rom. 

" Eth’m,” said Reme. 

" Now git behind thar, and let’s all march in.” 

" And we did march in,” said Mr. Bill, afterward — " me, 
and Karline, and Rom, and Reme ; and as we was a-march- 
in’ along, I felt— blamed if I didn’t — like King William at 
the heads of his armies.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Miles Bunkly had become too fond of his "molon- 
choly ” to let it depart entirely ; but its severest pains sub- 
sided in spite of him, now that the rival who had been 
preferred to him had justified the preference. 

" My respects of William Williams,” he would often say, 
" is that, that it riconcile me and do my moloncholy good 
that he’s the husband and the protector, as it were, of — 
well, ef I should name the name, it would be Karline Thig- 
pen that were.” 


282 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


For some weeks immediately following the day of the 
fight he had been observed, from time to time, in the inter- 
vals of other business, engaged with a work seeming to 
require much painstaking, the result of which will imme- 
diately appear. One morning Mr. Bill, standing in his 
door, called to his wife : 

Come here, Karline, quick ! Who and what can them 
be yonder a-comin^ up to the gate? Somebody, ’pear like, 
a-leadin’ of a par o’ dogs hitched to a little waggin.” 

Mrs. Williams, looking intently at the comers, cried : 

It’s brother, leading of a par o’ calves yoked to a little 
cart.” 

She was right. 

Good gracious, brother — ” 

But Allen paid not the slightest attention to his sister, 
not even saying good-morning. 

Here, Rom ; here, Reme ” (his business being with 
them), '' here’s a present for you from Miles Bunkly ; and 
he in particklar charge me to tell you, and which ef you 
weren’t old enough yit to have sense enough, ’twouldn’t 
be long before you would be to understan’ sich langwidges, 
that his respects of your father was that, that he sent you 
the follerin’ keart and steers, which he made the keart with 
his own hands, the paintin’ and all, and likewise broke 
the steers, and which they’re jest six months old to-day, 
which you moutn’t believe it, but they are twin calves, 
them steers is, of his old cow Speckle-face, and which he 
say is the best and walliblest cow he ever possessioned, and 
which them was the very words he said.” 

Then, turning to his sister and brother-in-law, he said, 
Mawnin’, sister Karline ; mawnin’. Bill.” 

Mr. Bill roared with laughter; Mrs. Bill shed tears in 
silence, both in their abounding gratitude. 

^'And twins at that!” said Mr. Bill, ''jes’ like Rom and 


KING WILLIAM AND HIS ARMIES. 283 

Reme ! ” An idea struck him as with the suddenness of 
inspiration. 

“ Allen,” he asked vaguely, “ does you know the names 
o’ them steers? ” 

“No, Bill; Miles didn’t— ” 

“ Makes no odds ef he did. I names them steers ; and 
you see they’re adzactly alike, exceptin’ that that one in 
the lead got the roundest — a leetle the roundest — ^blaze in 
the forrard.” Going slowly to the latter, and laying his 
hand upon his head, he said, “ This here steer here is name 
Mierlus.” Then walking slowly down around the cart and 
up to the other, he laid his hand upon his head, saying, 
“ This here steer here is name Bunkerlus.” He took his 
boys, lifted them into the cart, contemplated all with a sat- 
isfaction that had no bottom to it, then waved his hand in 
preparation for a harangue that few other things could have 
prevented than that which presently transpired. Miles 
Bunkly himself appeared at the gate, and walked in, his 
face wreathed in melancholy smiles. 

“Why, Miles, you blessed everlastin’ old fellow!” ex- 
claimed Mr. Bill. 

They were people too honest and plain to feel any em- 
barrassment. The generous donor at once took the lines 
into his hands, and led the procession several times about 
the yard and the lot, as innocent, and in many respects as 
much a child, as those on whom he had bestowed his gift. 
The ardor of Mr. Bill could not be subdued as he looked 
upon the scene. Tears like those in his wife’s eyes came 
into his own, and he said, softly, to her and to Allen : 

“ I never spected to live to see sich a skene and sich a 
ewent. Thar they goes, Romerlus Williams, and Remerlus 
Williams, and Mierlus — ahem! — Williams, and Bunkerlus 
Williams, and Miles Bunkly hisself, and the keart and all ; 
and I’ll channelge, I don’t say this county, but I’ll chan- 


284 


DUKESBOROUGH TALES. 


nelge this whole State o’ Georgy, to pejuce a skene and 
pejuce a ewent as lovely as the present skene and the pres- 
ent ewent on this lovely mawnin’ like. It do look like, 
Allen — it do look like the families is united and jinded to- 
gether.” Mr. Bill’s throat choked up with just enough 
space left to allow of breathing, but of not another word. 

Allen,” said Miles, when, the visit being over, they 
were on their way home, to think of William a-couplin’ 
of my name along with them lovely boys! Well, I never 
expects to git intirely over my moloncholy, but I tell you, 
Allen, I were never as nigh of bein’ of riconciled to it.” 


THE END. 






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